


like a memory from a dream

by Bookbee, Ginny_Potter



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ableism, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Anastasia (1997 & Broadway) Fusion, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky falls a lot, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Hemophilia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Mentions of Blood, Minor Character Death, No Smut, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Winter Soldier Umbrella of Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 93,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookbee/pseuds/Bookbee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginny_Potter/pseuds/Ginny_Potter
Summary: Best friends since childhood, Steve and Bucky couldn’t be more different. Bucky is the sickly heir to the Sokovian throne, while Steve is a mere kitchen boy. Their lives will be forever changed on a cold October night, when HYDRA seizes the power and the Imperial Family disappears from history. After a long and bloody civil war, HYDRA established its power in the country and Steve, former Captain for the losing side, is forced into hiding with a former ally, the Black Widow.But on the thirteenth anniversary of the fall of the Tsar, a rumor spreads in Novi Grad: the Dowager Empress, in her French exile, offers a reward to whoever will find out if one of the Imperial children is still alive. When a mysterious man without a past and bearing an incredible resemblance with Steve’ lost best friend appears out of thin air, looking for a way out of Sokovia, the opportunity is too good to pass…
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 276
Kudos: 137
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's get this party started!
> 
> Hello everyone,
> 
> After months of writing and plotting and editing and thanks to an amazing artist and godsent betas, I am proud to present you the Anastasia!AU for this Big Bang! 
> 
> First of all, I want to thank you my artist, [Bookbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookbee/pseuds/Bookbee), who created the art for this fic, who came up with the title and who edited the summary because I suck both at titles and summaries, yay. I can't believe I am amongst the Bigs for whom she made fantastic covers! Then my betas, [Brie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurphyAT) and [Lillaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillaby), which have worked so hard on my drafts and who helped immensely with uncertain plot points. This thing would not be as good without the both of you. Brie, I want the world to know that you did the fancy hovering translations thing. It's _so_ cool. All the remaining mistakes are mine. Finally, my friends, M&R, who helped me when I got stuck and when I had no idea how to go on with the story. 
> 
> A big thank you to the mods of the [NASBB](https://notanotherstuckybb.dreamwidth.org/), you worked so hard to transform a "simple" Bang into an experience and you did it in a time period in which everyone needed it. Thank you!
> 
> I tried to be as faithful to the time period and to the universe as possible. I do not speak Russian, but I tried my best using Russian Grammars and translators and such. I chose to transliterate the parts in Russian because I thought that in that way people who cannot read Cyrillic would be at least able to have an idea of its sound. If you hover your mouse on the words, you'll find both the Cyrillic and the translation. Please let me know if you find something terribly inaccurate or definitely wrong.
> 
> So, to conclude: enjoy this ride and stay safe.
> 
> Lots of love,
> 
> Ginny

([Picture credit](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Konstantin_Ukhtomsky#/media/File:Johrdan_staircase.jpg))

*

([Picture credit](https://www.arthermitage.org/Edward-Petrovich-Hau/Blue-Drawing-Room-in-the-Mariinsky-Palace.html))

*

Ноября́ 1917 г.

November 1917

**New Deal in Sokovia**

A telegram came via Stockholm: It is the end of autocracy in Sokovia. Winter Palace captured. Proclamation of HYDRA government.

Kurjer Warszawski, 8th November 1917

**Anarchy in Sokovia – HYDRA Rules**

The most radical revolution the world has yet to see has begun.

De Telegraaf, 9th November 1917

**Revolution in Sokovia**

Coup in Sokovia. The Tsar arrested or fled. Sokovia in HYDRA’s power. International Community demands immediate cease-fire and peace.

Bozner Zeitung, 9th November 1917

**New Government in Sokovia, Under HYDRA’s Leadership**

From Sokovia, HYDRA will give an ultimatum to the Allied Powers to engage in peace negotiations with their cabinet. The HYDRA government is formed, still unknown the name of the Chairman.

Sabah, 11th November 1917

**New Era in Sokovia**

Bloody days in Sokovia. Where is the Tsar? The collision of two forces: War and Peace. HYDRA gives ultimatum. Seizure of the Winter Palace. Revolution committees. The looting of military…

Vakit, 11th November 1917

*

Нови Град, Рождество 1915 г.

Novi Grad, Christmas 1915

There was a crown of small openings all around the strong top canopy of the majestic chandelier. They were covered by reflecting glass, but if you positioned yourself just right, you could look past them, down towards the immense ballroom underneath. Sure, the view was a little askew and blurry, because the small windows were crystal, fancy and glossy, but you could easily recognize shapes and colors and all the beautiful carvings of the golden mirrors, the ornate designs of the marbles, the opulent decorations. 

The Great Hall of the Winter Palace was elegant and shiny like a jewel; it was decorated with stuccos and Corinthian capitals and entablatures. Four thousand people could dine there at the same time on long, lace-covered tables. And the balls. All the gowns and the uniforms and the music. The women competed in a race to have the most extravagant and fashionable dress, while the men chuckled indulgently at their wives’ vanity, spending their time drinking precious liquors and talking politics. All the best musicians in the world longed to play for the elite of one of the oldest monarchies in Europe. It was breathtaking. The preparations for all that – supper, the following ball, concert – were being finalized at that precise moment; the occasion being Christmas dinner.

It was not easy to sneak a peek from behind the decorative glazed windows. To do so meant tiptoeing through the servant quarters, slipping behind a false countertop, and climbing the beams and the girders that kept up the immense, oblong vault. And then, well. Crouch. Or lay down. Or hang upside down on the scratchy wood.

He was becoming too big for that.

“Bucky! Here you are!”

The boy winced and bumped the back of his head against the solid bricks. A shower of debris fell on him, settling on his brown curls like snowflakes. A couple of beams down, a scrawny kid was straddling a wall rib, a smudge of dirt on his cheek and patched up clothes all rumpled. He was frowning.

“What are you doing here?” he insisted. 

“ _Stepanya_ ,” Bucky groaned, falling limp against his favorite beam – that being the one from where he had a better view of the ballroom.

“Everyone is looking for you. The whole palace. They are going crazy down there. _Sumasshedshiye_ , I say.” The kid switched to Sokovian, just to add some sprinkles of nagging to his scowling. Then, he bounced on the rib, wobbling precariously. Bucky glared and checked his breathing with a stern look. He was wheezing a little, but not dangerously so.

“You almost gave me a heart attack, Steve,” he growled.

“Yeah, well, you were all focused on the room downstairs, and I’m sneaky.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows.

“I am,” he sounded affronted. “They are teaching me.” 

“Whoever that is, they should mind their own business,” Bucky sighed, and sat on the edge of the beam, leaning in so not to bump his head against the ceiling. He slipped down and landed with effortless grace on the rib Steve was still straddling.

“ _Chto ty zdes' delayesh'_?” Steve asked again, with that funny accent of his, all big vowels and too strangled sounds.

Bucky shrugged, sitting down. “Too much fuss,” he mumbled.

“But it’s almost time for Christmas dinner. I am pretty sure I saw the Princess of Symkaria arriving.”

Bucky groaned again and rolled his eyes for good measure. He didn’t want to go to dinner, and he certainly didn’t want to entertain the Princess of Symkaria, who he had been forced to sit beside for the last four Christmases and who talked only about horses.

“ _V chem delo_?” Steve poked him in the ribs. “I thought you liked blond hair. She has blond hair.”

Bucky tried to poke him back in retaliation, but Steve recoiled, ready for it, and smiled with a defiant expression on his face. 

“Where will you be during Christmas dinner?” 

Steve shrugged. “Kitchen duty. Make sure to leave over the stroganoff, ma has a cold again,” he tried for non-committal, failing miserably. Bucky could hear he was worried. Steve’s mother was having a bad winter so far, and Steve wasn’t much better, but he had always been unwell in cold weather as long as Bucky could remember. Not the best time of the year for the Rogers family.

Trying to get that gloomy look out of Steve’s eyes, he bumped his shoulder. “I hate stroganoff, you can have all mine and then some. Probably Ol’ga’s too,” he hesitated. Steve’s smile looked tired, but sincere. “I will make sure to tell… someone that you get all that. The stroganoff.”

Bucky felt uneasy. He hated pointing out the social gap between them. They had been friends as long as Bucky could remember. The strangest of friendships because, well, Steve was a kitchen boy; his mother was a foreigner, one of the Winter Palace handmaids, and his father was a soldier lost in some war. Whereas Bucky, or rather, Yakov Bekkhan Yurʹyevich Voinov, was the only son and heir of Yuri II Nikolaevich Voinov and Ekaterina Feodorovna, Emperor and Empress of all Sokovias.

So, yeah. No pressure. 

They had met by chance – by mistake, really, since no low-level servant was allowed to be in the presence of the Imperial Family – and they had hit it off like a house on fire. Both small and sickly and full of mischief and not really supposed to sneak around that much. When he was with Steve, Bucky managed to forget for some time that he was Yakov Bekkhan Yurʹyevich Voinov, and instead he was just…

“Bucky,” Steve whined, hitting his knee lightly with the tip of his holey shoe. “Cut it out with the pity.” 

Steve never put much force behind it, not even when they fought – and they fought –, because Bucky’s skin bruised extremely easily. And when it bruised, everyone got worried and terrified, and then Bucky was forced behind closed doors for so many days and the treatments… Bucky blinked quickly, shaking away bad thoughts, and raised a corner of his lips. “Race me down. We have disappeared long enough. Gonna be in so much trouble, _Stepanya_.” 

And he jumped.

*

Нови Град, Ию́ня 1910 г.

Novi Grad, June 1910

“Why does the kitchen boy call you Bucky?”

“Because Bekkhan is difficult to pronounce for him.”

“He shouldn’t call you anything at all.” 

“Shut up, Ol’ga. _Occupe-toi de tes oignons_.” 

“Why doesn’t he call you Yasha like us?”

“Guess he doesn’t want to be like everyone else, Rebekka.”

*

> **Telegram sent on October 16th, 1917 from the State Councilor to the Tsar:**
> 
> The situation is serious. STOP. There is anarchy in the capital. STOP. The Government is paralyzed. STOP. Transport, food, and fuel supply are completely disorganized. STOP. Universal discontent is increasing, fueled by radicals. STOP. Disorderly firing is going on in the streets. STOP. Some troops are firing at each other. STOP. It is urgently necessary to entrust a man enjoying the confidence of the country with the formation of a new Government. STOP. Delay is impossible. STOP. Any tardiness is fatal. STOP. I pray God that at this hour the responsibility may not fall upon the Sovereign.

*

Виднойловка пушча, Сентября́ 1914 г.

Vidnoylovka Forest, September 1914

> _Moy dorogoy_ _Stepanya_ ,
> 
> Nobody knows that I am writing to you, but I guess you are wondering why you haven’t received anything from Yasha in the last few days. Moreover, I saw the medical bulletin in the newspaper, and I don’t want you to be kept in the dark. I know how much you mean to him. He is unwell again, and his condition worsens day by day. He fell at the beginning of the month by jumping into a rowboat and hitting one of the oarlocks with his left arm. He was better for a while, but then the juggling of the carriage caused his still healing hematoma to rupture and start bleeding again. _Mumiya_ never leaves his side. His temperature is under control for now, but I heard her and papa talking, and she insists on calling that German healer who is so popular in the capital.
> 
> I hope this letter will find you well and that you will receive the next one by Yasha’s chicken scratch handwriting.
> 
> May God bless you.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Rebekka

*

> **Telegram sent on October 20th, 1917 from the State Councilor to the Tsar:**
> 
> The position is getting worse. STOP. Measures must be taken at once, because tomorrow will be too late. STOP. The last hour has struck, and the fate of the Fatherland and of the dynasty is being decided.

*

Нови Град, Января́ 1916 г.

Novi Grad, January 1916

“Stop fussing.”

“Stop telling me to stop fussing.”

“I’m not stopping telling you to stop fussing!”

The two boys snarled at each other.

“You fuss all over me all the time when I’m sick,” Steve retorts, fluffing the pillows they’d set up on the loveseat.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I am fine. Temperature’s down. Don’t even have the jailers in the room.”

Steve glared again, but his lip quirked. “You shouldn’t call them that.”

Bucky shrugged. He didn’t like being constantly under surveillance, especially after his personal guard had changed at the request of his mother, which meant at the request of Schmidt. It had become harder and harder to sneak around like he used to under their watch, and when they caught him… well, it wasn’t like they could hurt him, really. He was, after all, the only heir to the throne and apparently a very fragile one at that, but they locked him in his rooms for so many days that sometimes Bucky was really tempted to cause himself some harm just to see a new face. His mother’s or even Schmidt’s. But then he thought about Schmidt’s remedies, and boredom was always preferable to Schmidt’s remedies.

A bird chirped outside, and the two boys turned towards the windows, momentarily distracted.

“I like this room,” Steve said, getting up from the floor and looking around curiously. He stretched, his baggy clothes falling all over him like the skin of a very grey, very big animal, like an elephant, or a rhino. The pale, wintery sun illuminated his sharp features.

It was mid-afternoon, and they were in the blue drawing room. There were still a couple hours of light before darkness. Bucky liked the blue drawing room too, with its big windows and the grand piano strategically placed between them. It had been entirely renovated when he had expressed the wish to spend more time there. All the sharp angled furniture had been replaced so that he could be allowed to stay when he was well enough to walk. He could rest there, the Tsarina kept repeating; have his afternoon nap, read, and even play music on a good day. The room had been furnished with two extremely tall bookshelves full of manuals and essays and even some novels smuggled in by his sisters. But the thing that Bucky liked most about this room was that it concealed a secret passage that his guards did not know about, meaning Steve could sneak in easily. They still had to be very quiet – no game of chasing allowed – and most of their conversations had to be whispered. But apart from that, it was ideal.

“What is this doing here?” Steve asked, looking curiously at a clearly misplaced globe in the middle of the room.

Bucky shrugged. “Mashka asked for all her lessons to be moved here,” he waved towards the windows. “Ol’ga says it’s because this way she can spy on the soldiers marching past,” he smirked at Steve’s blush and not-very-well-masked indignation. “Oh, _Stepanya_ , don’t blush.”

“’m not!” he protested.

“Do you have a crush on Mashka? With her big baby blues, Marija’s saucers…” Bucky was trying so hard not to burst into laughter.

Steve looked horrified. “I would never– I wouldn’t dare– ” he whispered, in an agonized rambling.

Bucky chuckled. “I’m messing with you.”

Steve deflated and glared at him, but there was obvious relief on his face. “ _Kretin_ ,” he muttered.

“Wash your mouth, Rogers!” Bucky exclaimed, delighted. “You are talking to the Tsesarevich.”

Steve rolled his eyes and went back to examine the globe with interest. His fingertips brushed the cradle mount almost reverently. “It’s masterful,” he whispered. “How it’s designed, the colors, the way it’s painted– ”

Bucky smiled softly. It was always fascinating to watch Steve get taken in by different forms of art. No other children their age was interested in that kind of thing. They were mostly only up for games of pretend war and sports and boat trips – at least, those Bucky knew were. He wasn’t so sure about Steve’s peers. But Steve and Bucky… they were usually forced to spend a lot of time sitting still because of their shaky health.

They couldn’t play together that often on good days either, since they weren’t supposed to be friends. So, when they managed, they spent tons of time reading stories to each other – Bucky was particularly proud of the fact that _he_ had taught Steve to read, ages ago – stories of exotic lands and adventures and pirates. Sometimes Bucky played the piano, while Steve doodled absent-mindedly on old and battered notebooks.

Steve had known art his whole life, sneaking in beautiful gardens, private chapels, severe libraries just to meet with Bucky. His face always just… lit up when he entered the astonishing rooms of the Winter Palace. It could be paintings or sculptures, or the soft, rich brocade of the tapestries. He always approached them as one would a crucified Christ, with the respect and veneration one should save for a religious experience. Bucky and his sisters... they took it for granted, most of the time. They were used to the opulence of their numerous palaces and houses, even of their yachts. While people like Steve, well, even if he had lived in the palace all his life, it just wasn’t the same thing, Bucky guessed.

His back was starting to hurt again. Damned injections. Schmidt really outdid himself this time. He shifted, trying to hide his grimace from Steve. Luckily, Steve was too focused on the globe, tracing a line from the United Kingdom all the way through the Atlantic Ocean.

“Look at this. _Karibskoye more._ ”

Bucky smiled and stopped moving, trying not to lean too much on his back. They read Treasure Island together the month before, hidden under Bucky’s covers in the middle of the night, holding an old oil lamp so carefully they managed not to spill even a single drop of fuel on the precious cotton sheets. Steve’d had to sneak out of the window and slip into Rebekka’s room to use the passage behind her dresser, afterwards. That cost Bucky his marble set – Bekka was vicious. 

While forced in his room for three weeks with nobody but his guards for silent company, Bucky had reread the book so many times he now knew it by heart. He longed for the sandy beaches of the Caribbean Sea and the transparent water. He wanted to explore the jungle and cut trees with a sword and eat those strange, juicy fruits. He wanted to drink coconut milk and run on the shore and push his sisters into the ocean, laughing at their shocked expressions. He wanted to build Steve a sandcastle so big they could live inside it for the rest of their lives, far from everything. Far from the cold and the ice and the burdens.

Steve looked at him and smiled. “ _‘I'm cap'n here by 'lection. I'm cap'n here because I'm the best man by a long sea-mile.’_ ” he quoted, trying to give his voice a scruffy tone.

Bucky sniggered. “And who ‘lected you, cap’n?”

Steve smirked and looked around. There wasn’t anything pointy, of course, but Mashka’s violin was still lying on the piano. He grabbed the bow and pointed it towards Bucky. “A council of buccaneers,” he declared.

Bucky raised his hands. “‘ _Ax your pardon, sir_.’”

Steve smiled and abandoned the bow on one of the soft looking armchairs. He never sat on any of them.

“We should go, one day,” he said, dreamily. “Steal that yacht you always boast about, and sail for America. We can become pirates, raid the Caribbean, find treasures,” he paused, as if thinking about it. “And also fight the bad guys.”

Bucky laughed, because of course, that was Steve. “And save beautiful maidens. Like Maaaashka, saucer-eyed Mariiiiija.”

Steve gaped, red as the sunset, and threw one of the cushions at him, which made Bucky laugh even harder, and then ran at his side, landing on his knees, tried to smother him, always careful not to jerk or to squeeze too forcefully. Bucky kept laughing, unable to stop and think that they were definitely making too much noise.

A knock at the door made them freeze.

“Your Highness?”

The door handle squeaked.

Bucky took a deep breath. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Just a very funny passage in one of my books.”

A pause.

“Very well, Your Highness.”

They both breathed a sigh of relief, hearts hammering in their chests. Steve abandoned the cushion, which fell on the ground with a soft thud. He leaned on the side of the loveseat, his head propped against Bucky’s thigh.

“Grab the book,” Bucky mumbled after a while.

“You grab the book,” Steve snapped back without moving.

“ _Ya Tsesarevich_.”

“And I’m the cap’n.”

Bucky smiled.

*

> **A torn page from _Treasure Island_ , Chapter 28, probably 1910 edition. Some lines underlined in black ink.**
> 
> fight, as gentlemen o’ fortune should; then, by thunder, you’ll obey, and you may lay to it! I like that boy, now; I never seen a better boy than that. He’s more a man than any pair of rats of you in this here house, and what I say is this: let me see him that’ll lay a hand on him — that’s what I say, and you may lay to it.”
> 
> There was a long pause after this. I stood straight up against the wall, my heart still going like a sledgehammer, but with a ray of hope now shining in my bosom. Silver leant back against the wall, his arms crossed, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, as calm

*

Виднойловка пушча, Сентября́ 19140 г.

Vidnoylovka Forest, September 1914

> **Telegram sent from Johann Schmidt to the Tsarina** :
> 
> The little one will not die. STOP. Do not allow the doctors to bother him too much. STOP. Coming with the serum. STOP. JS 

* 

Нови Град, 31-го Октября́ 1917 г.

Novi Grad, October 31st, 1917

It was a beautiful, cold October night, and the palace shone with a thousand electric lights. It was majestic, as if a gigantic, encrusted crown had just fallen in the middle of the capital. The nobles kept saying enthusiastically that it had not been this outstanding since the Tsar’s coronation over twenty years before.

The Imperial Family was celebrating the 300th anniversary of their reign, and on the same occasion, the Tsesarevich was going to be given the formal title of _Serzhánt_ , so as to be able to officially leave for the front beside his father to learn the ways of war. 

Bucky had already been there, actually, all throughout the summer; just him, the Tsar, and Schmidt. He had enjoyed military life, eating the black bread of army rations, refusing the better treatment reserved to royalty, listening to the soldiers’ stories, and reporting them in his long letters to his sisters and to Steve. He had missed them dearly, most of all Rebekka. It wasn’t the first time that he had stayed away from the capital so long, but it was the first time that he wasn’t with the girls. 

He was used to writing to Steve. All those summers the Imperial Family spent away from the capital; it was almost fun, using their secret codes and strange phraseologies nobody else in the world would have been able to decipher, but it was different with Ol’ga, Marija, and Rebekka. Even if they were starting to grow older, readying for marriage and for new lives far from the Winter Palace, Bucky had never been more than a few days apart from them before that summer.

It was also the first time he had spent almost every waking hour in direct contact with Schmidt. Because of his delicate nature – _Such a fragile boy, this is no place for you_ – their therapy sessions had become so frequent that Bucky wasn’t sure anymore if he was actually ill; if he really had something wrong, if his blood wasn’t behaving the way it should, or if Schmidt was just experimenting, trying new combinations of remedies when Bucky was strong enough not to bruise from it. It hurt, but it made him better. That’s what his mother had been repeating for years. _I know, Yashenka, it hurts, but it will make you better_. 

“Wow, that’s a real uniform.”

Bucky started and turned. Steve was on the balcony, his face white with flour and his legs dangling from the bannister. Bucky hadn’t even noticed that he had subconsciously left the French door ajar, hoping that Steve would visit him before supper – so he could show off, probably. He liked his new uniform.

“Because I’m a real soldier,” Bucky answered, somewhere between defiant and pompous.

Steve snickered and jumped down, entering the room. His shoulders relaxed immediately at the heat coming from the brand-new radiators and from the fireplace.

“You are thirteen,” he pointed out, petulant as ever.

“And you are twelve, so shut up. I’m older and wiser.” Bucky checked in the mirror that all his buttons were tidily fastened.

Steve rolled his eyes but didn’t comment. He was clearly fascinated by the military green of the uniform, the golden shoulder loops, and the high buckled belt. It even had a sheath, but Bucky was not allowed to have its complimentary sword until his father presented it to him.

“I wish I could come with you, fight with you,” Steve mumbled, taking Bucky’s hat from the dresser and into his hands, looking at it with a serious expression on his face. 

Bucky felt a pang of guilt. “I don’t think there will be much fighting,” he admitted. “I _am_ thirteen.”

That caused Steve’s lips to curl up in amusement, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I could be your squire. Polish your boots and everything,” he said, shrugging.

Bucky tapped a finger against his chin. “I could ask how it works. If it’s doable. I have friends in the army now,” he said importantly, and Steve snickered at him. Again. Bucky bumped his shoulder against Steve’s. “You know, you don’t make me very well-disposed towards you.”

Steve pushed back, without much force. “ _Prostite, Serzhánt_.”

Bucky smiled and lowered his head, allowing Steve to place the hat on his curls, tipping it a little to one side. He straightened up, taking a good look at himself in the mirror. He raised his chin, trying to seem taller. Well, it was easy enough, beside Steve, but he was shorter than all his sisters, even Rebekka, and he didn’t like it one bit.

Steve smiled. “Looking good, Sarge.”

Bucky couldn’t repress a grin.

“Go on and make sure to enjoy the _Kolomna pastila_ because I slaved over it.”

They never made it to the _Kolomna pastila_.

The first thing Bucky noticed, diverting his gaze from the conversation he was having with some dignitary he had forgotten the name of, was the smoke. Clouds of white smoke enveloped Alexander Column, in the square, beyond the huge windows, creating a weird misty effect. The first nonsensical thought that came to Bucky’s mind was that Steve would have loved to sketch that. Then came the noise; a huge blast and a roar. The table shook, the precious ceramics and the silverware rattled and jingled. Rebekka’s hand closed on Bucky’s wrist. There were people, outside in the snow, pressing against the gates. Bucky could see their dark shapes, oddly illuminated by the bursting lights coming from the palace. 

The doors of the Great Hall opened wide and a man ran inside. He was one of the guards, regularly posted outside. There was snow on his shoulders and terror in his eyes.

“ _HYDRA lyudi. Oni idut_ ,” he babbled, almost disbelieving.

The Tsar rose, chair clashing on the inlaid floor. His astonished grey eyes were fixed on the mob that continued to grow outside, amassing against the shiny golden gates and starting to climb them. The first clear shot shattered the glass of the left window.

And chaos erupted.

The Imperial guests started screaming and running towards the doors, pushing and shoving and walking all over each other. The Duchess of Sutherland once wrote: _They seat at supper nearly four thousand people_. That night there weren’t that many, but in the crush of bodies it certainly seemed so.

Rebekka’s hold on Bucky’s wrist was almost painful. The Tsarina was yelling something, looking around, trying to gather her children around her. The Cossacks ran inside from a side door, grabbing the Tsar– where were their guards? Where were Bucky’s annoyingly quiet jailers? He looked around, confused, trying to make sense of what was happening. 

“Leave me! What are you doing?” his father exclaimed in English and then in Sokovian, but they were overpowering him. “This is– ”

His mother started to cry and scream, and Rebekka pushed him towards one of the exits, following a group of women who were trying to escape the soldiers coming for them.

_They are our soldiers._ Bucky thought desperately. _Our guards. How is this possible?_

Except they weren’t. Not really. An unfamiliar symbol was sewn on some of their jackets. It hadn’t been there five minutes ago, Bucky could swear it. Instead of the golden crowned eagle, a skull surrounded by tentacles.

What…?

Rebekka, his fierce, beautiful sister, kicked and pushed, trying to wriggle out of the room, but suddenly a familiar face showed up, right in front of them, where until a second before were just skirts and corsets. But how did he– ?

“Your Majesty,” Schmidt looked gaunt, gaunter than usual, and was looking straight past Bucky and Rebekka, where his mother and his other sisters were. “Your Majesty, children, follow me,” he offered his hand to the Tsarina and, in the blink of an eye, Bucky saw it. The sleeve of his jacket shifted and, underneath it, the skin, just a slice between his glove and the garment, was red. An angry, bloody red.

Bucky’s eyes widened and Schmidt noticed. He could see his attention flicker in a split second from mother to son. Bucky and Schmidt looked at each other, evaluating the fact that in that single, precise moment they both knew. Around them, screams and fear and the end of the world. Time seemed to stretch, and Bucky took a leap of faith.

“Bekka,” he turned to his closest, youngest sister – she was still holding his wrist, her thin fingers pressed to his skin – and looked at her straight in her eyes. “ _Golubaya gostinaya._ _ Derrière la étagère. Il y a un passage_,” he whispered in Sokovian, then in French, quickly shifting from one language to the other, hoping that it was enough to confuse Schmidt. “Take Ol’ga and Mashka and run down the– ”

The sentence was cut in half when Schmidt grabbed him by the back of his neck like a puppy, lifting him effortlessly. “Your Highness. Time is of the essence,” he said with ice-cold calm.

“Let me go!” Bucky roared, kicking left and right. He could still see Rebekka with the corner of his eye, her hands now empty, her expression completely lost. _Please, please, please, Bekka, do as I say._

“Yakov!” his mother exclaimed, seemingly outraged at his bad behavior. _Yeah. Good timing, mother._

“Run!” Bucky screamed at the top of his lungs. “He’s not… he’s not…”

_What he looks like._

_Or maybe he always was. We were just too blind. Or scared._

But the world fell on them before he could manage to form a sentence. A loud crash, an explosion, and Bucky plummeted, face first to the floor. He blanked for a second, or several, or a lifetime. His head was pounding. Everything was black. No, no, no, no, his sisters. He had to– He tried to blink, but he could not move, his ears– He groaned in pain and tried to turn on his side. Rebekka. Ol’ga. Marija. He wanted to scream. Was he screaming?

“Get up!”

That voice.

“Bucky, get up!”

He felt Steve’s small hand tugging under his armpit, turning him on his side. “Get up, _Serzhánt_.”

_I’m trying._ He wanted to growl.

Steve tugged at him again, wrapping a scrawny arm around his shoulders and taking most of Bucky’s weight on himself. Bucky leaned on him and finally managed to scramble to his feet. 

“Steve– ”

“This way,” he said, without sparing him a glance, yanking him out of the way.

“The girls!” Bucky barked, trying to look over his shoulder. Everything was a mess of colors and noises, and he couldn’t focus long enough on anything except putting one foot in front of the other.

“Just walk, Bucky,” Steve’s voice was pained. There was blood smeared on his own face. Bucky couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, sticky and viscous against his own cheek.

“ _M-moy sestry_ …” he tried again, Sokovian slurring out of his mouth.

Steve pushed a door open, then propped Bucky up against the wall to move a beautiful mahogany dresser out of the way. It had to weigh a lot, how did he even… but Bucky couldn’t think with all the noise in his head, his ears hammering like war drums. There was a bloody handprint on the dresser now. The hand of a child.

Steve grabbed his arm and revealed a secret passage behind the bright green satin panel: it was a vertical tunnel with a metal ladder on one side. It was too small, he was never going to fit, not with all the pomp of the ceremonial uniform he was wearing. Steve saw that too and started taking it off him, ripping the expensive fabric, golden buttons rolling on the floor like marbles– marbles, the marble set Rebekka took from him…

“Rebekka…” he mumbled, and the name felt almost foreign on his tongue.

“Bucky. Bucky, listen,” Steve was looking at him with bright, desperate eyes. “They dropped a bomb into the Great Hall. You hit your head. But you have to stay awake. Down here, the servants’ quarters, turn right, go through the laundry rooms and you will end up near the Palace Bridge. You have to cross it. Bucky, you have to cross it. ‘t will be guarded, but you can do it. Go down near the river, climb the bars, hang onto them, right to the other side. Walk till the end of the line of the old railroad. To the sewers. Hide there. _Kanalizatsiya_.”

The bridge. The bars. Hang onto them. The end of the line.

“The sewers,” Bucky repeated, trying to fight against the buzzing. “But the girls– ”

“They took them.”

_Who are they?!_ Bucky wanted to scream, but just a pained groan came out of his mouth. _What is happening?!_

The doorknob rattled; someone was trying to get in the room.

“I can’t. I can’t go without them. Steve– ”

He had to understand. He had to.

“I’ll go back for them.”

_No. It has to be me. I’m their brother. I’m the Tsesarevich. I’m supposed to protect them._

“Bucky, you’re losing too much blood. And with your condition…”

_What do you know?!_ It was like his voice was blocked inside his throat. His head was pounding, and the constant ringing in his ears was driving him mad. Black spots kept popping up behind his eyelids. He was going to faint.

Outside, a loud bang. They were trying to break down the carved door, and they were going to succeed.

“I’ll get the girls. The sewers, Bucky. I’ll see you at the end of the line,” Steve whispered, then he pressed his palm against Bucky’s chest and pushed.

Bucky toppled inside the tunnel, instinctively opening his arms to curb his fall. His palms scraped against hard bricks, and with some difficulty he hooked one foot on a metal rung. When he raised his head, he just saw darkness. Steve had closed the panel. He climbed up again and tried to push. He couldn’t leave Steve alone to face whoever was trying to kick down the door. He couldn’t leave his three sisters to God knows what destiny, and his parents… But the panel didn’t budge. Steve must have pushed the dresser back against it. He wanted to cry.

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the wood, but he couldn’t hear a thing, the hissing sound in his ears too loud, the pounding in his head... it was as if he was able to hear the blood running in his veins.

_Kanalizatsiya_.

_I’ll see you at the end of the line_.

He had to believe it.

He climbed down the ladder, one step after the other, trying to ignore the pain that ran through his limbs, his chest, his everything. His lips trembled when he lowered the doorknob at the end of the tunnel, but the laundry rooms were deserted.

Bucky walked through the hung linens; they looked like ominous ghosts, almost cloud-like and translucent in the faint moonlight coming through the windows. The room must have been quiet, but Bucky couldn’t enjoy it: there was so much noise in his head. He walked tentative steps towards the door, wobbling and grasping at the sheets to maintain his balance. He knew he was leaving bloody prints everywhere, but he couldn’t help it.

He reached the other side and his fingers slipped on the handle. He was shaking. He tried again. The doorknob rattled, but it was painfully obvious that the door was locked. He let go a frustrated whimper. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t– He grasped the latch and shook the door, but it didn’t budge. He tried again and again and again, until he was slamming into it, pain and desperation running through his wreaked body, his left shoulder hitting the wooden surface in such a violent way that every portion of it screamed at his brain to stop. But, finally, with a curt crack, the lock gave in and the icy air of the Sokovian autumn hit him like a slap in the face.

He gasped for air, feeling his eyes prickle. It was cold. And he was in his shirt. He was going to freeze to death.

Bridge. Bars. Hang. Railroad. Sewers. Hide.

_Most. Bary. Podozhdi. Zheleznaya doroga. Kanalizatsiya. Pryach'sya._

_I’ll get the girls._

“I can do this,” Bucky whispered under his breath.

He just had to trust Steve. Steve believed he was going to make it. He walked out in the snow and suddenly the frosty wind enveloped him, making him shiver to the bone. He limped, his boots leaving a thread of recognizable prints. He swore under his breath, words that he was never allowed to pronounce and that made him blush.

There was a high railing on that side, but no guards. The cowards had probably been the first ones to defect to the other side. He licked his lips when he reached the tall spikes. He had to climb. Beyond it he could see the bridge and the dark stream of the river underneath. Alright. Nothing for it. He heaved up, putting all his weight on his already sore arms and shoulders. He suppressed a pained groan and tried to find a foothold, but the metal was slippery with snow and he fell, landing on his butt.

_I’ll get the girls. I’ll see you at the end of the line._

Bucky got up, backed up for a running start and jumped. With a sound of surprise, he managed to grasp at the central horizontal railing, and held onto it like a castaway. He could feel every single muscle screaming in agony. By some sort of miracle, or just force of desperation, he pushed his body up, climbing until his fingers managed to feel the pointy extremity of the fence. He flung himself over it, paying attention to not end up speared on the railing, and then he dropped down on the other side. He took a deep breath, fighting the impulse to just lean against it and rest, and glanced at the bridge nearby. The lampposts were off, but he could distinguish the shadows of at least three men on guard.

First, he had to cross the road. There was a group of bushes that could cover him on the other side. As soon as the shadows seemed to look to the other way, Bucky ran as fast as possible on his wobbly legs. He crouched between the shrubs and slithered slowly, almost crawling, until he was able to roll down the banks on the muddy shore. Safe.

Bars. Hang.

_Bary. Podozhdi._

He climbed, the same way he had climbed the inside of the vault over the ballroom so many times, balancing his weight as much as possible with the ringing in his ears. He grabbed the squishy bars, moist with dampness and snow and cold. He could hardly feel his fingertips, but he moved steadily sideways, bar by bar, shoulders aching from hanging as he was.

He had reached the central pillar of the bridge, when a voice froze the very blood in his veins. 

“Your Highness.”

Bucky raised his eyes and almost lost his grip.

Johann Schmidt, or at least, what was left of him, was standing above him. His clothes were splattered and ruined, traces of dirt and soot staining them irreparably. He was holding a shiny blue object in his still-gloved right hand and he stood tall at the center of the bridge, the guards motionless a few feet away.

But his face.

His aristocratic features, high cheekbones, long nose, broad forehead, were completely mauled and covered in welts and burns. His jet-black slicked-back hair, always perfectly styled, had disappeared, burnt away, and he was now bald. His nose was nothing but a disturbing skull-like cavity. But the most upsetting thing was the color of his skin: it was red, red as blood, just like the glimpse Bucky’d had of his wrist before. He could see all of this, even in the pale light of the moon and the blue light coming from the luminescent cube in Schmidt’s hand.

“Now, be a good boy and come with me,” he said, offering his left hand as he had with his mother, only minutes – hours? – before in the shiny ballroom.

Bucky forced himself to hold his gaze. There was no use in looking back towards the Palace. It was lost. He knew it was. “I don’t think so,” he said, voice raspy as he held onto the pillar and heaved himself up, remaining on the other side of the parapet.

“You are an ungrateful brat,” Schmidt said with a chilling sweetness that clashed with the brutality of the words. “After all I did for you. I cured you. I made you better.”

_I know, Yashenka, it hurts, but it will make you better._

Bucky shivered.

Without waiting for an answer, Schmidt raised the hand that was still holding the cube and suddenly, it propelled a jet of light that hit the lamppost to Bucky’s left. He yelled, surprised, and to avoid being hit, he jumped towards the railing, grasping at it, legs kicking wildly in the air, desperately and blindly looking for a foothold.

Schmidt laughed, walking with an eerie calm towards Bucky, the object still lazily pulsing in his hand.

“Don’t you want to see your sisters again? Come with me and I will bring you to them,”

Bucky’s heart sank. He gasped for air and put all his effort in climbing back on the railing without toppling over on Schmidt’s side. Why did he want him? What did he want to do with him?

Experiment. Go on with the experiments. Making him into… something.

But his sisters–

_It’s useless. If he has them, they are as good as dead._

He felt tears welling up in his eyes. But he was not going to give that monster the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

“I don’t believe you,” he growled, but his voice betrayed him, cracking mid-sentence.

Schmidt looked at him. His face wore the disappointed expression that he usually assumed when something he tried didn’t work out and Bucky kept bleeding and bruising and filling his mother with concern. “Oh, little Yakovushka.”

Bucky’s cheeks heated up in humiliation. How dared Schmidt call him that? He was the Tsesarevich, he was the son of Yuri II Voinov, Tsar of all Sokovias. He was a prince and heir to the throne anointed by God.

Schmidt smiled. “I really wished we could do this the easy way,” and in a second he was on Bucky, his free red hand grasping his neck, cutting off his air supply.

Bucky choked, trying to maintain his feet on the other side of the parapet, grabbing Schmidt’s hand with both of his. He struggled, but his polished boots slipped against the metal of the railing and he couldn’t– he couldn’t–

But then, in an instant, he saw it, out of the corner of his eye, the shiny cube in Schmidt’s right hand. It had to be important. It was powerful. He dug his heels in the railing and thrust himself towards it. Schmidt recoiled, taken by surprise and let him go, and Bucky fell with all his weight against his right side, the cube plummeting to the ground with a sharp cracking sound. 

“No!” Schmidt yelled and leapt, but Bucky was faster.

He grabbed the cube with his left hand. A searing pain ran through his arm. It was more intense than anything else he had ever experienced – more than the aftermath of the explosion, more than the concoctions that Schmidt had been shooting into his veins for years. He screamed in agony, but didn’t let go, and suddenly Schmidt was crushing him against the railing, cutting off his breathing again. Bucky didn’t budge, though the cube felt like it was burning his flesh and splitting his soul. Another jet of light exploded from it and in the blink of an eye, Bucky felt the bridge collapse under his feet.

The last thing he saw was Schmidt’s horrified expression above him, before he bumped the back of his head against the central pillar and fell in the freezing waters of the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations** (since I noticed that the fancy hovering thing does not appear in the mobile version):  
> \- _Sumasshedshiye_ = Сумасшедшие - Crazy.  
> \- _Chto ty zdes' delayesh'?_ = Что ты здесь делаешь? - What are you doing here?  
> \- _V chem delo?_ = В чем дело? - What's the matter?  
> \- _Occupe-toi de tes oignons_ = Mind your own business. (The literal translation would be: 'Take care of your onions' which is hilarious)  
> \- _Moy dorogoi_ = Мой дорогой - My dear.  
> \- _Kretin_ = кретин - Jerk.  
> \- _Karibskoye more_ = Карибское море - Caribbean Sea.  
> \- _Ya Tsesarevich_ = Я Цесаревич - I am the Tsetsarevich.  
> \- _Prostite, Serzhánt_ = Простите, Сержант - Sorry, Sergeant.  
> \- _HYDRA lyudi. Oni idut._ = Гидра люди. Они идут. - HYDRA people. They are coming.  
> \- _Golubaya gostinaya_ = Голубая гостиная - Blue room  
> \- _Derrière la étagère. Il y a un passage._ = Behind the dresser. There is a passage.  
> \- _Moy sestry_ = Мои сестры - My sisters.  
> \- _Kanalizatsiya_ = Канализация - Sewers.  
> \- _Most. Bary. Podozhdi. Zheleznaya doroga. Kanalizatsiya. Pryach'sya._ = Мост. Бары. Подожди. Железная дорога. Канализация. Прячься. - Bridge. Bars. Hang. Railroad. Sewers. Hide. 
> 
> **Some footnotes** that would have cramped the Chapter notes at the beginning:
> 
> I did my best to translate James Buchanan Barnes - and family - in a sort of Russian version. xD Sorry if I failed spectacularly. Yakov - Yasha is the diminutive - is the Russian version of James; Bekkhan is not the Russian version of Buchanan, it's just the only Slavic name I could find that may justify "Bucky" as a nickname; Voinov is a sort of translation of Barnes based on the possible origin of the surname Barnes.
> 
> The Imperial court speaks Russian, English and French because that's what actually happened at the Russian court.
> 
> I chose to set the story in the fictional Sokovia because the Russian Revolution and the HYDRA coup are two very different things both politically and socially. Also, setting the story in a fictional country gives much more freedom xD. This notwithstanding, Sokovia is here a sort of AU Russia. Bucky will be often referred as both Tsarevich and Tsetsarevich: the Tsarevich is any son of the Tsar, while the Tsetsarevich is the heir apparent.
> 
> **For those of you who are history nerds like me:**  
>  -Newspapers at the very beginning: These are all [real newspapers' titles](http://www.europeana-newspapers.eu/wwi-in-historic-newspapers-october-revolution/) from the Russian Revolution times. I obviously changed some names and wording for fic purposes.  
> -Telegrams: all real too. They were sent by Mikhail Rodzianko, President of the Duma, to the Tsar. You can find them in several books about the Russian Revolution, like _The Fall of the Russian Empire_ by E. Walsh. The telegram from Schmidt to the Tsarina is a modified telegram that Rasputin sent to the real Tsarina. You can find it on Alexei Romanov's, the real Tsetsarevich, [Wikipedia Page](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexei_Nikolaevich,_Tsarevich_of_Russia).  
> -The page from _Treasure Island_ is indeed from the [1910](https://archive.org/details/robertlouisstev03hamigoog/page/n214) edition and it is the very beginning of page 179.  
> -The Blue Room was a [real room in the Winter Palace](https://www.watercolourworld.org/painting/interiors-winter-palace-drawing-room-grand-princess-maria-nikolayevna-tww014a44) and it was particularly loved by the Grand Duchess Marija.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we see a little bit of future and how we got to said future. And where we meet Natasha.

([Picture Credit](https://42ndblackwatch1881.wordpress.com/2009/04/23/a-mans-desk-is-the-portal-to-his-mind-how-design-creates-order/))

Ию́ля 1918 г.

July 1918

**Ex-Tsar of Sokovia Killed by Order of Ural Council**

Yuri Voinov, ex-Tsar of Sokovia, was shot July 16th, according to a Sokovian announcement by wireless today. Unknown the whereabouts of the rest of the family.

The New York Times, 20th July 1918

**Ex-Tsar Shot – Local HYDRA Branch Decision**

It is now announced by the HYDRA Government that the ex-Tsar has been shot by the order of the Ural Regional Council, which stated that they decided upon that course owing to the threat of the Czecho-Slovaks against the capital of the Urals, and their discovery of a counter-revolutionary plot in which the former monarch was involved. […]

The Manchester Guardian, 22nd July 1918

*

Нови Град, Октября́ 1930 г.

Novi Grad, October 1930

The little kiosk at the corner of Market Square was a good place to get information. It was always crowded with people gossiping and chattering about the latest news, noses buried deep in freshly printed newspapers, and eyebrows furrowing over the worries of the day.

Natalia Romanova liked lingering near the kiosk first thing in the morning, munching absent-mindedly on a _ponchik_ on her best days. She usually leaned against the closest lamppost, observing the people on their way to work who would stop and pay a couple nickels for magazines and tabloids. She liked reading them. The people, not the black lines of more or less controlled news. She liked seeing which section they would read first. She enjoyed waiting for their frowns and the dissatisfied head shaking. They even managed to elicit a smile when they muttered under their breath.

“They say HYDRA will grant business monopoly rights to marketing boards to control production and prices with a quota system.”

“State industries free to control their workforce! Frozen wages! Puah!”

“Full time merchants? Speculators! All of them!”

“Third War Commissar dropped from the executive committee in five weeks. Are we sure we even need a War Commissar?”

That icy October morning was one of Natalia’s good days. She had made a decent amount of money the day before, finishing a couple of jobs, and she was taking small bites from a custard-cream _ponchik_ , leaning against the lamppost like usual.

The billboard on the side of the kiosk announced the explosion of an old military compound somewhere near Nyansk.

“‘Although the Tsar did not survive, one child may be still alive,’” someone quoted, reading from the third page of the newspaper. “Again with this nonsense. It’s like people want to get themselves arrested.”

“As if we haven’t enough problems as it is,” commented a man with a smelly cigar between his teeth.

“And who would care about a royal brat anyway?” A middle-aged woman with a small child on her neck intervened. “We worshipped them for three hundred years and look what happened.”

The first man laughed darkly. “Shot in the head, the whole family.” He imitated a pistol sign with his thumb and index finger.

The woman glared, but didn’t bother to cover her child’s ears. Children nowadays heard much worse.

Smelly Cigar folded the paper and Natalia caught a glimpse of the page he was reading: an official portrait of the Imperial Family, the Tsar, the Tsarina, and their four children. The title, in black block letters announced, _Is one of the children alive? Dowager Empress offers reward_.

“Don’t know about the family,” Smelly Cigar said, taking a mouthful of smoke.

“Ah!” The newsagent waved a hand to shoo a group of pigeons that were perched on the billboard in front of the kiosk. “Viktor, I didn’t know you were one for conspiracies.”

“‘m not,” Viktor mumbled, grimly. “But if the old hag believes it…”

“The old hag lost her mind after dear Yuri’s brain redecorated that wall in Severoylovka. Been offering reward money for years. As for the others… all slaughtered like pigs,” the first man went on, as if nobody had talked. He leaned towards the child and passed a meaty finger under his throat. The boy hid his face in his mother’s neck, but his expression remained blank.

At that point, the middle-aged woman huffed and retrieved the basket she had abandoned near the billboard to buy the paper. “Enough with this nonsense,” she muttered, before lifting her long skirts and walking away.

“People want to get themselves arrested,” Viktor said with a wise expression, repeating the words of the first man who grabbed his shoulder in a friendly way and shook him. He didn’t react and turned the page of his newspaper.

Natalia smiled, licking the sugar of the finished donut from her fingertips. She threw the crumbled _ponchik_ paper at the pigeons, and when the three men turned to watch them fly away, she pulled one of the newspapers from the stack.

Nobody noticed.

The stairs to the attic were screechy and built in a hurry, half of them badly covered by a ceiling of makeshift metal sheets and tarpaulins. Not even Natalia could climb them without making any noise, and she was _very_ sneaky. Objects were scattered on the wobbly landings; a grandfather clock, shattered mirrors, old frames painted with gold varnish, even a harp, the melancholic legacy of a forgotten past. Once, this staircase had been made of bricks. Once, these walls had been covered in white plaster, and once, waiters and footmen in livery had run up and down the steps with fresh linens, silver platters, and golden candlesticks. Natalia hesitated in front of the harp, brushing her fingers on the inlaid hair of the mermaid that decorated its top.

All that glittered was not gold, though.

“Natasha?”

She smiled, turning her back to the old musical instrument and climbed the last flight of stairs. The door creaked when she opened it. “Honey, I’m home,” she chirped, smirking at the man who was sitting at a desk beside the window.

His hair was a dirt blond and fell on his forehead in uneven locks, the tips barely brushing the back of his neck. His beard was darker, hazelnut brown, similar to his roots. He kept it thick, but well groomed, hiding most of a handsome face with sharp features and a long nose. He was a bulky man, tall and broad-shouldered, not easy to forget. He was dressed simply, dark brown trousers and a yellowed shirt; an old military jacked was thrown carelessly on his back. He raised his head from the stack of papers he was examining and smiled at her greeting. His eyes were a piercing blue. Near his hands, still on the documents, the tools of the trade: scissors, razors, correction fluid, glue.

“You are not very good at hiding proof, you know that, Steve?” She spoke in English, her accent flawless.

He glared at her. “ _Ya uznal tebya po tvoyemu shagu_ ,” he answered in Sokovian, his smile not faltering. His inflection was flawless for a non-trained ear, and even someone as good as Natalia could almost mistake it for a regional one. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have guessed he’d grown up near the western border.

“No, you didn’t. You are just shit at spy stuff,” she answered lightly, switching to her mother tongue. She knew he didn’t like to speak English, but she was in the mood for some teasing. Well, next time.

“Lucky for me I have you.”

Natalia smiled and took off her fingerless gloves and her cheap fur coat, abandoning them on an armchair with a missing foot. At some point, they had stacked it with old books neither of them had read in years: _Vingt mille lieues sous les mer_ , _Robinson Crusoe_ , _Gulliver’s Travels_ , _Treasure Island_ …

“How come you are already up? It’s barely dawn.” She walked behind him and placed the stolen newspaper on the desk near a modern photographic camera that looked strangely out of place. She kissed the top of his head with affection, her hands resting on his shoulders, brushing against the worn-out loops.

He shrugged. “Work to do.”

 _Mmm. Bad mood today. Grumpy_ Stepanya _is in._

“Passports?”

He shrugged again and Natalia knew when to let it go. She climbed a couple of steps that were covered in colorful fabrics and opened the window, letting in the morning air. It was freezing outside, but the room was stuffy and suffocating. She shivered, welcoming the sensation.

“Just five minutes, _Stepanushka_ ,” she mumbled at his distressed groan. “And put a jumper on.”

He mumbled something, probably more against the diminutive itself than the cold, but didn’t protest. He didn’t move either.

When Steve worked, nothing else mattered. He was a perfectionist and the best forger in the capital. He could produce fake documents in half a day, and his copies of the lost treasures of the Imperial Palace were often mistaken for originals.

Natalia hugged her knees and took in the room. They had been living in the attic of the old Winter Palace since the end of the civil war. Nobody really dared to get close to the ruins. People thought it was haunted by the ghosts of the carnage of thirteen years before, so it was the perfect hiding spot for two ex-rebels.

The room they were in was a shrine of valuables; busts of Princes and Grand Duchesses from the eighteenth century, flamboyant eggs painted with miniatures of dancing nobles and landscapes, old mahogany dressers and cabinets that once had crystal panels all over them, ancient swords and goblets and candlesticks, framed portraits and sketches of people long dead. It was impossible to distinguish real from fake. Natalia brushed her fingertip on the belly of a beautiful violin that was leaning against the steps that led to the French window. It hadn’t been there that morning, and she wondered where it came from. She opened her mouth to ask, but Steve spoke first.

“What is this?”

His voice sounded strained.

Natalia cocked her head. “What?”

Steve was looking at the article about the supposedly survived imperial child, his eyes unreadable. She thought about the words of the man at the kiosk. _It’s as if people want to get themselves arrested_.

“People enjoy being arrested, I guess,” she shrugged, repeating the words, slightly puzzled by his strong reaction.

“People should learn some fucking respect,” Steve spit out, discarding the paper with a jerk of his wrist. “And let the dead rest.”

Natalia blinked, surprised. This was not usual Steve behavior. Yes, he was grumpy most of the time, and yes, he wasn’t known to approve of the government. Natalia _knew_ he had fought for the so-called SHIELD during the uprising against HYDRA that had led to the Civil War seven years before – it was, after all, how they met –, but nobody really missed the Tsars these days.

“The Dowager Empress has been offering a reward for years to whoever finds even one of the family members alive,” she said, dismissively. “And now they found bodies in the Urals, and there were only five– ”

Steve’s fists clenched so much his knuckles became white. “I don’t want to talk about this, Natasha,” he snapped. “Not today. Not ever. Close the window, please. I’m freezing.”

Natalia nodded, bemused, and pushed at the French door with the tip of her boot. It closed with a soft click. She looked at the back of Steve’s head, the uneven movement of his shoulders as he tried to compose himself. Slowly, his fists unclenched and he went back to his papers, still shaking, as if he was fighting against a burst of rage.

They didn’t talk for the rest of the morning.

It was the last day of October, and the year was the XIII of the HYDRA Era.

*

Ура́льские го́ры, Ию́ля 1926 г.

Ural Mountains, July 1926

([Picture credit](https://talesfromthesupplydepot.blog/2015/06/29/field-service-post-card/))

“Good morning.” Natalia smiled pleasantly, looking at the man lying on the single bed. He had short blond hair and a light stubble, maybe a couple of days old. He looked like someone who was usually clean and pristine, as you would expect from an army officer, even in troubled times. His abdomen and right shoulder was wrapped in white bandages, visible under his thin shirt. He was in ugly shape, with deep purple shadows underneath his eyes and the emaciated look of someone who had been suffering the pains of hell. And judging from the amount of small medicine boxes on his bedside table, it was a miracle he wasn’t knocked out by the drugs. The threadbare blanket that did little to protect him from the humid chill of the early morning had pooled around his hips when he had raised on his elbows the moment Natalia had entered the room. His eyes were slightly out-of-focus, and he looked at her as though he had never seen a woman before, mouth gaping and red cheeks.

“Ma’am.” His gaze went from her to the door, a forgotten stack of papers in his lap threatening to fall down. “Who… You shouldn’t be here. Where’re…?”

The smile on Natalia’s perfectly painted lips didn’t falter as she observed the man’s fumbling and squirming as he tried to understand why an unknown woman had just entered a private room that was supposed to be guarded.

“Well, I guess this wasn’t for me.” Natalia pouted and placed a card on the bedside table, trying not to chuckle at the man’s disbelieving stare. “I was very flattered when I received it. The famous _Kapitàn_ _Rodzhers_ saying little old me had sent him a letter on the 5th of June and making sure I knew he was all right. I had to check.”

Captain Rogers opened and closed his mouth, still blushing like a young maiden. “Ma’am,” he began again, his pronunciation impeccable. “I would never presume… It was probably a mistake of the postal services.”

Natalia was endeared and even a little impressed with the way he answered in perfect Sokovian. She already knew he could speak both English and Sokovian, and even some French, but the absence of even a little inflection was stunning. Then again, everyone in the SHIELD troops knew about the foreigner who had shown nothing but loyalty to the cause, so much so that he had risen through the ranks of the military in such a short amount of time. He was barely twenty-one years old. “Was this for your sweetheart, _Kapitàn_?”

If possible, he blushed even more. “My mother,” he answered quickly, almost bashful.

Natalia’s smile flickered for an instant. She slowly took off her ermine-lined gloves and her fur coat, abandoning them on a chair with affected carelessness.

“Well, this room is charming,” she commented with an amused smile, looking around.

It was clearly the Captain’s personal accommodation. It was the stark room of a soldier with nothing out of place. Documents were tidily arranged in stacks on the desk, alongside a simple wardrobe and two chairs. On the bedside table, there was a package of medical cigarettes, a glass of water, and the postcard Natalia had brought with her.

Captain Rogers cleared his throat and made a wide gesture. “Please, have a seat. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

It was clear that once he had gotten over the shock of having an unknown woman in his bedroom, he wasn’t really buying the postal error story.

“Natalia Alianovna,” she answered, extending her right hand. The Captain propped himself against the makeshift cushion, suppressing a groan, and leaned in, only slightly brushing her palm with his index finger, his breath barely caressed her knuckles. A real gentleman. They were rare. 

Satisfied, Natalia sat on the chair at the desk and smiled softly when the Captain straightened up on the bed, shoulders pressed against the metal frame of the headboard, his eyes following every movement she made. It was clear that sitting upright was costing him a great deal of self-control, and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

“Pleasure,” he finally said, deadpan, scrutinizing her with clear blue eyes.

“Have you ever heard of me, Captain?” she asked, scraping the top of the document stack with perfectly manicured red nails. They were an exact match for her lipstick.[5]

“Can’t say that I have.”

She smiled, lowering her eyes. An awful liar, like every honest man. Silence fell on them, broken only by Steve Rogers’ accelerated breathing.

> Asthma.
> 
> Sinusitis.
> 
> Chronic or frequent cold.
> 
> High blood pressure. 
> 
> Palpitation or pounding in heart.

How strong was this man to survive all that _and_ two bullets in the gut _and_ one in the shoulder _and_ one in a thigh _and_ be able to sit up and hold a conversation only two days after being shot? He was clearly something else.

“I know things,” Natalia said with simplicity. “And I make things happen.”

Rogers did not move. She could tell a part of him wanted to grab the Nagant revolver that was surely kept in the drawer of his bedside table, but, on the other hand, he was probably be too much of a gentleman to shoot an apparently disarmed woman.

“I know you are a very upstanding man, and I know that you grew up as an, ah, army mascot.” He blushed again and Natalia chuckled. “Very cute pictures with the Howling Commandos, by the way.”

Rogers’ fists clenched around the blanket. “Is there a point to this, ma’am?”

“I know you received promotion after promotion in SHIELD, and it was neither for their desperation, nor for your brutality. They say you inspire people.”

“I do my duty.” Fatigue spilled from every letter. He shouldn’t sit up that much. His jaw was set and he was clearly in pain.

“Tell me about the shooter.”

He blinked, genuinely surprised. “Beg your pardon?”

“Who shot you during the incursion at the facility two days ago?” She repeated slowly, observing him like a rare animal. She had all the time in the world. The guards outside were in dreamland and she wasn’t past using more persuasive methods, despite the apparent goodness of this man. Nobody was that good anyway.

“I don’t know,” he said, and he sounded sincere. “I didn’t have good visual. It was night. Could be anyone from HYDRA.”

Natalia sighed and leaned against the back of the chair, crossing her legs. “I read the report,” she said, and she was glad he didn’t point out how indecent that was – it was classified! – even if he was clearly fighting to restrain his indignation.

“Then you know what I know,” he grunted, teeth gritted.

“But I want to know more,” she pouted, assuming the tone of a capricious child, tapping on the desk. “Think harder, Captain.”

He closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with his fingertips. A drop of sweat ran along his straight jawline. His breathing was becoming increasingly erratic. “Even if I knew something, why would I tell you?”

The unspoken question was there: What do you have against me? It was sweet how he thought she couldn’t possibly take the information she needed with force. Not because he underestimated her. She could see from his wary body language that he was perfectly aware that, weak and wounded as he was, he wasn’t a match for her if the situation escalated. No, it was because he believed himself to be absolutely incorruptible.

Natalia grinned with all the innocence in the world. “Well, darling, because I am your sweetheart.” She tilted her head towards the bedside table where the postcard intended for Rogers’ mother laid propped up against the books.

The Captain went white, greyish even in the faint light that came from the only lightbulb in the room. He understood immediately. Someone had his mother, and he better work with them or else. A simple field card could say all of that. He had sent it to Sara Rodzhers, who lived alone and who may or may not be notoriously connected with SHIELD, and now this postcard was in the hands of a mysterious woman with a lot of time and a lot of questions. Even with his mind clouded by medication, it wasn’t hard to put the two and two together.

“Where is she? What have you done to her?” His voice was rough and angry.

It was so easy to put people with loved ones on their knees.

“She’s safe,” Natalia said, dismissively. Could be the truth, could not be, she had no part in the wellbeing of the woman. She was just there to get the information. “So, _Kapitàn_ , do you want to put some more effort in your answer? I hate this whole mess. I am usually much more subtle, but they say you are just and upright.” She licked her lips, but he didn’t flinch.

He seemed to consider her for several long moments, his blue eyes watery and feverish. “I thought he had a metal arm,” he finally said, deadpan.

Natalia raised her perfect eyebrows.

“Yes, I know. It sounds crazy,” Rogers went on. “That’s why it’s not in the report. It probably was a trick of the light,” he looked at her straight in the eye. “Is this what you wanted to know? That I went crazy? Who put you up to this anyway?”

Natalia recovered her composure quickly, not really listening to any of the questions Rogers was asking in rapid fire.

_I thought he had a metal arm._

She got up and retrieved the card from the bedside table. Rogers grabbed her wrist, and for a second they just stared at each other. “Don’t, Captain,” Natalia said with what sounded almost like fondness in her voice. He was wheezing, his chest going up and down too quickly, “I'll send this for you and it will reach its destination. Try not to die in the meantime.”

He loosened his grip and started to cough, gasping for air. She moved away and put on her coat and her gloves, and checked in the mirror to adjust the angle of her fancy hat. Then she turned towards Rogers who was struggling on the bed, leaning heavily against his right elbow, his hand grasping at his thin shirt. There was some red on his bandages. Natalia looked at all of it with icy eyes.

“I know your parents came from Ireland. I know your favorite food is stroganoff. I know your comrades would die for you, a foreigner, without thinking about it twice. I know you’ve known only the military for most of your life. I know you are a virgin. I know you believe in freedom, participation, fairness, and equality. I know you like adventure novels. I know you don’t like to speak your mother tongue. I know about your asthma and all the other diseases you have and have had, and I know they would have prevented you from joining a legitimate army.” She paused. “I know this and much more, Captain Rogers. I also know you are not crazy,” she finished and walked to the door, turning the handle.

She could feel his piercing blue eyes on her back. “And I know you,” he choked on his own need to breathe. “Black Widow.”

*

> **Doctor’s notes:**
> 
> 1st November 1917
> 
> Karpov’s package arrived this morning, though whether we will be able to get anything useful from it is as yet unknown. The physician of the village where it had been retrieved has speculated that the subject’s immersion in freezing water may have preserved him, as it prevented his wounds – consisting of several severe lacerations on the left side of his body and the loss of his left arm at the shoulder as well as a blunt force trauma on the back of his head – from bleeding out. Since they had not the facilities to test this theory, he was kept in cold storage until he could be transported to a secure location. His identity is unknown.
> 
> 4th November 1917
> 
> Yesterday exceeded all expectations. Subject’s body temperature was increased over the course of several hours, and his wounds were dealt with to prevent bleeding. When his temp. was close enough to normal, it was as we thought… his tissue and blood were still viable. To revive him we administered electricity, Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation, and adrenaline directly into the heart. And though I can still hardly believe it, the subject woke up. But whatever the reason, there appears to be considerable brain damage. The subject has no memory of his previous life.

*

Где-то под Нянском, Ию́ля 1926 г.

Somewhere near Nyansk, July 1926

The Asset didn’t remember the last twenty-four hours. This was not big news, but this time his handlers seemed angry about it. He looked at them fighting on the other side of the glass, little men with big plans. He frowned, confused, and looked at his hands.

His hands had always been different: one flesh and blood, the other pure metal. They were so unalike he didn’t know how it was possible that they were both his. The metal one changed from time to time; the color, the shape, the definition of the muscles on its back, the thinness of the wrist… it was even more different if he looked up his forearm, his shoulder and… It had been _.._. It kept changing. Palms up, palms down. The knuckles of his right hand were split, clotted blood the color of rust on the edge of the little cuts. His frown deepened. Something was wrong. Cuts were supposed to bleed and keep bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. There was a time when they never stopped.

“How is he malfunctioning?!” the taller man yelled outside, hands in the air. “He has never malfunctioned a day in the last ten years, he is _perfect_.”

The Asset’s lips curved, a warm feeling in his chest. The taller man was talking about him. He said he was _perfect_. A rush of pride made his cheeks blush under his short stubble; he could see it in the reflection on the glass. He looked at himself. His hair was growing too much – they were going to cut it soon. Also, he needed maintenance to his shoulder; his pectoral muscles were growing too fast and pressing against the plates. Where scar-covered tissue met metal, his skin was an angry red. Maybe it was time for a change. Maybe the metal would have another color now; darker, lighter, more flexible, less flexible.

_He is perfect. Look at him. Our baby boy._

What was this voice? A woman. He blinked. There was no woman in the room, nor outside.

He wasn’t a baby either. He never had been. He was smaller, and then he grew. He had been a boy, yes, and now he was a man. Or was he? Did the Asset grow?

The other man, a short, owlish creature with a bald head and round glasses, was squeaking something about poor maintenance and too much time on the field. The Asset could hear him, even if he knew he shouldn’t.

“Then put his fucking brain in a blender again!” The taller man shouted, and the Asset recoiled, crawling back against the wall on the small bed.

Did he do something wrong? He felt his eyes fill with tears. But–

 _But_.

The same man had _just_ said he was _perfect_. Why would he…? Why punishment? No. No, he didn’t want it, he didn’t do anything wrong. He hugged his knees, trying to become one with the wall. The short man – Zola, his name was Doctor Zola – looked at him through the glass. He had a strange expression on his face, something between disdain and worry.

“He should be kept from the battlefield for a while,” Zola said, his tone somber. He seemed aware that the Asset was able to hear every single word. Their eyes met, dark blue into dark blue, huge and scared on one side, evaluating and beady on the other. “He is too precious, General. He doesn’t belong on the front lines.”

_Too precious._

The Asset’s heart beat faster, pleased by the praise.

*

> Major General Vasily Karpov
> 
> Head of Special Section
> 
> Department X
> 
> [Top HYDRA Clearance Only]
> 
> Project: Winter Soldier –
> 
> June 1919
> 
> Volkov’s man, ex-Okhrana, has proved his worth. The schematics for Advanced Robotic Appendages and Attachment he provided two months past are revolutionary. Our science team finished a working prototype and attached it to the subject without incident. With the new appendage in place, clearance was given for Department X to begin work on the Winter Soldier Project.

*

Нови Град, Февраля́ 1927 г.

Novi Grad, February 1927

“Well, if this isn’t a surprise.”

The man turned abruptly and winced at Natalia’s outstretched arm, her revolver pointed right between his big baby blues. He raised his arms in surrender, but she didn’t move, a cheeky smile on her lips.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, sounding resigned.

“Same as you, I guess,” Natalia answered.

Steve raised an eyebrow. He seemed awfully relaxed for someone who may or may not be about to have his brains blown out.

“You look better than the last time,” Natalia went on.

The last time she saw Steve Rogers, they were in snow a foot tall, surrounded on all sides by HYDRA agents. When she woke up, she was in her last lover’s house, some HYDRA colonel whose utility ended with the first purges of his own party a month later, surrounded by fluffy cushions, and SHIELD had lost the civil war.

“I followed the advice you gave me the first time we met,” he shrugged, then went back to immobility when Natalia’s index finger brushed the trigger with intent. She tutted. “I survived.”

They stayed still for a couple of minutes, the only noises were the cold winds blowing outside and the old house creaking. She listened carefully for any movement, but everything seemed still. They were alone, not that she had any doubts; she had checked the perimeter herself twice before going in. Rogers was such an idiot.

He sighed, annoyed. “Natasha, can we stop this gun pointing? War’s over, I lost, you–” he hesitated, then huffed a dark laughter. “I honestly have no idea. But it’s over.”

She breathed out and lowered the gun. “Nice place. Could do with a little remodeling.”

It was an old house in the outskirts of the capital. It must have been the family home of some rich bourgeois, before the coup, and it had been repeatedly ransacked over the years since. There were signs of bullets on the walls, curiously above some shelves and the fireplace, as if someone had used the now lost ornaments for target practice. Most of the furniture was ruined and worn out, and Steve was sitting in an old creaky chair, facing a writing desk that had seen better times.

Steve’s arms fell at his sides and his eyes ran over Natalia’s slim figure. He seemed older, sadder. He’d lost that self-righteous spark he had the first time Natalia met him, the spark that he’d had for the previous year, whenever they worked together – on the battlefield as well as undercover.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. He didn’t question how she found him. She was always better at spy games. “Are you here to bring me in?”

Natalia looked at him quizzically, and Steve chuckled. “I am a fugitive. Fifty thousand rubles on my head.”

“Oh.” She dismissed him with a wave and hopped on the desk. “Nah, Rogers, you aren’t even worth that much.”

Steve shook his head, a fond smile on his lips. “Then why are you here?”

Natalia shrugged. “I have a job for you.”

*

> Report–
> 
> Codename: Winter Soldier–
> 
> Field Test: 5 November 1922
> 
> All objectives achieved. Codename: Winter Soldier encounters no difficulty on mission.
> 
> WINTER SOLDIER–
> 
> MISSION REPORT
> 
> Novi Grad, 11 December 1922
> 
> Objective: Former General Nikolaj Nikolaevič Voinov. Target eliminated with prejudice.
> 
> WINTER SOLDIER–
> 
> MISSION REPORT
> 
> Białowieża Forest, 14 May 1923
> 
> Objective: Diplomatic Negotiation Team. All targets eliminated without incident. Fire reported as accident.
> 
> WINTER SOLDIER–
> 
> MISSION REPORT
> 
> West Urals, 1 January 1924
> 
> Objective: Chief of the Provisional Government Sergei Semyonovich Kutuzov. Target eliminated, along with acceptable collateral damage. Authorities have no leads. War imminent.
> 
> WINTER SOLDIER–
> 
> MISSION REPORT
> 
> Eastern Front, 4 July 1924
> 
> Objective: SHIELD Colonel Grigori Luk’yanovich Phillip. Target eliminated with prejudice.
> 
> WINTER SOLDIER–
> 
> MISSION REPORT
> 
> Eastern Front, 3 November 1924
> 
> Objective: Peace Conference Envoys. All targets eliminated.
> 
> WINTER SOLDIER–
> 
> MISSION REPORT
> 
> Eastern Front, 16 January 1925
> 
> Objective: SHIELD highly trained scouts. All targets eliminated.
> 
> WINTER SOLDIER–
> 
> MISSION REPORT
> 
> Eastern Front, 17 April 1925
> 
> Objective: SHIELD highly trained special forces commandos. All targets eliminated.
> 
> WINTER SOLDIER–
> 
> MISSION REPORT
> 
> Eastern Front, 25 August 1925
> 
> Objective: SHIELD Kuban Cossacks’ front line. All targets eliminated.
> 
> WINTER SOLDIER–
> 
> MISSION REPORT
> 
> Eastern Front, 13 February 1926
> 
> Objective: SHIELD Admiral Grigorii L’vovich Kazarov and the Black Sea Fleet. All targets eliminated without incident. Fire reported as accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations** :  
> \- _Ya uznal tebya po tvoyemu shagu_ = Я узнал тебя по твоему шагу. - I recognized you from your stride.
> 
>  **Footnotes for history nerds (like me!)** :  
> -More newspapers! [The New York Times](http://movies2.nytimes.com/learning/general/onthisday/big/0716.html) and [The Manchester Guardian](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jul/22/tsar-nicholas-executed-1918).  
> -The field service postcards were real! It was an efficient form to deliver news about the health of the soldiers quickly. What I filled in with Steve's data is an actual British field service card. See [here](https://talesfromthesupplydepot.blog/2015/06/29/field-service-post-card/) for more.  
> -A Nagant revolver was a [standard weapon](https://www.quora.com/What-weapons-were-primarily-used-in-the-Russian-Civil-War) used during the Russian Civil War.  
> -The Doctor's notes come almost verbatim from Captain America v. 5 #11. Karpov's secret file is the page that can be seen in the Kiev folder Natasha gives Steve at the end of _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we properly meet the Asset (and a little grey dog).

([Picture credit](https://movie-screencaps.com/avengers-age-ultron-2015/3#foobox-1/137/age-ultron-movie-screencaps.com-498.jpg?strip=all))

*

Где-то под Нянском, Октября́ 1930 г.

Somewhere near Nyansk, October 1930

It all started with a dog.

The Asset was not allowed to keep pets. He wasn’t sure about the difference between pets and normal animals, actually. He was quite certain there had been some training with animals – or were they pets? – when he was…

He blinked, shaking his head. And the thought was gone.

But the _dog_.

Go back, start again, hold that thought.

It all started with a dog.

But the Asset was not allowed to keep pets anywhere in the facility. But there was _one_. A dog. There was a dog and it was small and grey, and it was scampering in the snow of the courtyard, and it was chasing a chubby waxwing. He could see it in the corner of his eye.

The Asset stopped in the middle of the hallway and walked closer to one of the large wall windows. He cocked his head. It was a small thing, in the middle of the courtyard. The dog’s tongue was lolling out of its mouth as it jumped up and down. Its grey eyes met the Asset’s for a second. It wagged its tail enthusiastically and came closer, always following the bird. Was it _hunting_ the bird? The Asset pressed his flesh hand against the glass. It was cold and his hand left a damp print, but he didn’t move it.

The dog wiggled its butt, ready to jump on the little waxwing that was now resting on a fallen branch, chirping indignantly. The left corner of the Asset’s mouth curled up. Was it possible for a bird to chirp indignantly? Or was it just an impression? The dog jumped, and it could have seized the waxwing, closing its jaws on the small body, tasting the blood, conquering its prey but… no. Its snout just bumped against the feathery ball before falling face first in the snow.

The Asset’s eyes widened in wonder. The dog was _playing_.

“Joy,” he heard himself say, under his breath.

And something exploded in his head.

_“Joy! Joy! Come back here! Don’t run!”_

_Colors, so many colors, it was a field full of poppies._

“He’s down, the Asset’s down, someone call the Doctor!”

 _“_ Mumiya _is going to kill us, Yasha!”_

_A little girl with auburn locks and a blue ribbon._

He was screaming, hands in his hair. What were those images? What was that? He never had a dog. That was not– _It hurts, it hurts, make it stop, make it stop_. Not allowed to have a dog. Not allowed to have pets. Not allowed to have anything.

_“Just run, Bekka! Joy, come back!”_

_A puppy, rolling in the grass._

“He’s just screaming, sir, we don’t know what to do. We heard the screaming and we ran here.”

“He is never supposed to be alone!”

“Feodorov was supposed to take him from his room to the lab, but he said you agreed it was just a short way and he has been stable enough lately…”

“You are all incompetent!”

The panicked voices went on and on and on.

_“Bad boy, you are a bad boy, Joy!”_

_Laughter, the raspy tongue of the dog happily licking the little girl’s face._

“Just seize him!” The hysterical voice of Zola drilled his eardrums. “I have to inject him, just seize him!”

A syringe full of transparent liquid in the doctor’s hand. The Asset howled in pain; pain from his head, pain from the punishment that was going to come.

 _“Let’s go back, Yasha, or_ mumiya _will tell Margaretta not to give us dessert.”_

_The soft sensation of fluffy fur in his hands._

Hands on his body, the shifting of the plates in his metal arm.

_“He just… won’t stop… wiggling…”_

_The dog smelled of grass and mud and summer._

“Keep him still! What is with this damn barking?” Zola yelled, furious.

“There’s a dog in the courtyard,” came the bewildered voice of one of the guards who was trying to block him.

_“Take your jacket off and wrap him in it, like a baby.”_

_“He’s not a baby, Rebekka, he’s a dog!”_

“It’s driving me insane. Just shoot that stupid mutt!” Zola screeched, glasses askew, grabbing the syringe like a dagger.

And the Asset froze.

And everyone else froze.

Everyone but the dog, which was still thrashing against the glass, barking and whimpering.

And it all started with a dog when hell broke loose.

The Asset’s left hand grasped the closest of the guards’ throat, snapping his neck and throwing the body against one of the wall windows, which exploded into a billion shiny fragments. The other guard shouted something and raised his gun, shooting once, twice, thrice, four times, but the bullets bounced against the palm of the Asset’s metal hand, hitting the wall, a vase, one of the tall lamps, and finally, the shooter himself in the middle of his forehead. The Asset retrieved the pistol and turned around, pointing it straight between Zola’s eyes, who whimpered, hands raised, moving backwards on his short legs. He was either begging or calling for help, the Asset didn’t know.

He cocked the gun.

A bullet hit his metal left shoulder, and he turned around with a growl. Three more men were running towards him, guns blazing. He shot one, one kneecap out. He shot the second right through the hand holding the pistol. The third shouted something and took cover behind the threshold of one of the labs; he then tried a blind shot and the Asset jumped behind a chair, assessing the situation.

Four down, two dead, two incapacitated, one bullet in his gun, one man who was probably calling reinforcements, and… where was Zola? He quickly scanned the room, and a flash of a smile appeared on his lips when he noticed the small dog growling and biting at the doctor’s leg; he was still on the floor a couple feet from him. The dog must have snuck in through the broken window. The little man was shaking his leg furiously, but the dog wasn’t letting go.

Instinctively, the Asset put both his little fingers in his mouth and whistled. The dog stopped and turned towards him. The Asset patted his thigh, and the puppy scurried towards him, tongue lolling. He cradled it – her, it was a her – in his arms, and gently pushed her to take cover in the hood of his sweatshirt. The dog whimpered a little, pressing her cold and damp nose against the Asset’s nape.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, reassured by the presence of the animal in his hood. A blueprint of the building appeared in his mind. It was a U-shaped structure; the short side was constructed partly with load-bearing masonry, while the two longer branches were made from temporary sheet metal. They were no more than warehouses, easy to dismantle in case of an evac. The shorter way out was obviously straight through the courtyard and over the gate topped with razor wire. Easy.

A whimper distracted him, and he opened his eyes. Zola was scampering to his feet but stopped abruptly when he noticed the cold eyes of the Asset on him. The Asset smiled with a chilling calm, raised his hand, and took aim. Zola squeaked and dodged – the bullet hit him in the shoulder. He fell like a sack of potatoes. Good enough. The empty revolver fell on the floor with a _tunk_.

The Asset turned towards the door where the other guard was taking cover and, possibly, calling for help. He couldn’t remember if there was a panic button in the lab, but _no._ He could see the guard’s arm aligned with the threshold, and he rolled his eyes. _Durak_. He got up and silently walked towards the two men on the ground. He kicked Crushed Kneecap in the face, preventing him from reaching his fallen Nagant revolver.

Before Hidden In The Lab could realize what was happening, the Asset picked up the pistol and shot. The snap of the bone in the guard’s elbow echoed louder than the gunshot itself. Hidden In The Lab groaned in pain and did what all stupid people do. He abandoned his hiding spot, raised his gun… and the Asset’s bullet hit his carotid. He collapsed. The Asset scoffed, almost disappointed. Were they all this incompetent or was it just his lucky day?

Suddenly, a piercing noise cut through the air and the Asset scowled. So Hidden In The Lab wasn’t a complete idiot after all. There _was_ a communication system in the room and he must have triggered some sort of alarm. The Asset needed to be quicker; he didn’t know how many guards were still standing. Also, note to self, he had to remember he had a dog in his hood. He took Hidden In The Lab’s gun and checked how many bullets it still contained. Five. _Not bad_. He slipped two more from Crushed Kneecap’s pistol and stole both holsters. Two guns, around ten bullets. One makes do. He didn’t have much time – he could hear the footsteps of the soldiers alerted by the alarm, the shouting and the gunshots.

“You all right back there?” he asked, just to make sure, and the dog gave a small whine.

Right, quickest way: courtyard. He jumped through the broken window and cut across the snowy space. If the dog had got in, he could get out. Out.

Out _where?_

Suddenly, a pang of guilt ran through him, and he stopped near the fallen branch. The same place from before, where the waxwing had stared annoyed at the puppy, waiting for her to make her move.

Why was he running? Where was he going? This was his _home_.

He ran a hand through his hair, grasping at it. His head hurt. What was he _doing_? He had killed the guards. He had shot his handlers.

_Put his brain back in a blender._

_Prep him._

_Mental Implantation Procedure: three, two, one._

_Wipe him and start over._

His heartbeat started to accelerate. He was panicking. The puppy whimpered in the hood and…

Go back, start again, hold that thought.

It all started with a dog. The dog. The dog in his hood.

_Shoot that stupid mutt!_

He gasped for air. Zola had shouted, _Shoot that stupid mutt!_ So much hatred, so much disdain for an innocent creature.

_Wipe him and start over._

_But I didn’t do anything wrong._

A bullet grazed his right leg and the Asset groaned, taken by surprise. He raised his head: a marksman – a shitty one, thank you very much – was taking aim from the third floor. He had to take cover – he had to protect the little one. She was innocent, innocent, _innocent_. He ran, drops of blood falling in the snow. He had to go, he couldn’t stay, the facility didn’t allow pets. He couldn’t keep her, he couldn’t keep her safe, and if he couldn’t keep her safe…

_Shoot that stupid mutt! Wipe him and start over._

He was almost halfway when a blast of bullets stopped his run, digging a groove in the ground in front of him. He stopped abruptly and turned towards the main building. Two guards were controlling one of the machine-gun posts, one of them holding a megaphone. The marksman was still in position in the third-floor window.

“Stand down,” ordered the guard, loud and clear, through the device. “This is a warning, _Soldat_.”

The Asset licked his lips, his eyes moving quickly. They weren’t going to kill him, that much was clear, or that hail of bullets would have mowed him down without a second thought. There was a door to his right that led to the warehouse. To the storage rooms with sheet metal walls, full of firearms and munitions. He had _prepared_ there for missions, hadn’t he? He groaned. His head was hurting again.

Well, it wasn’t like he had much choice.

“Just hang on, little one,” he mumbled to the dog.

“ _Soldat_. Lower your weapon. This is your last– ”

_Yeah, I don’t think so, pal._

He raised his arm and fired. The third-floor shooter fell back inside the room. Much better; he really hated shitty marksmanship. Taking advantage of the apparent bewilderment of the two gunners, he ran towards the door, metal arm first, charging with all his weight. The steel bent like paper against his assault, and he broke in easily.

He hadn’t even stepped in when someone shouted, “Freeze!” and a blue jet of light grazed his thigh.

 _Fuck_ , that hurt.

He turned towards the voice. Two guards were running, shiny assault rifles in their hands. The Asset smiled. Finally, the big guns. He dodged the next shot, which hit a rack, blasting a hole in the middle of it and destroying some perfectly good shotguns. _Not bad._ He kinda wanted one of those. He _had_ owned one. Once. Twice. He shook his head and his hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. No time for headaches now.

He ducked behind a barrel of fuel, evaluating the space. He had been here before, he had. If he could just remember when…

An energy pulse hit the barrel and it exploded, sending the Asset flying a couple of feet to his left. _Ouch_. His left hand reached automatically to his hood, but the dog wasn’t there anymore.

_Oh, no you didn’t._

He jumped to his feet, adrenaline coursing through him like lightning, and his eyes widened. A wall of fire was separating him from the two gunmen, who were shouting directions at each other. Stupid idiots. The Asset took a deep breath: this was his chance.

First, dog. Second, get the _hell_ out of here.

“Dog!” he called, looking around desperately for the small animal. “ _Sobaka_!” He crouched, checking under the closest rack of rifles. She couldn’t be that far away. “Dog!”

Another blast of energy hit the floor on his right, and the Asset growled in frustration, firing blindly through the flames. It wasn’t really a good idea. Eight-ish bullets. A second barrel exploded, closer to him, and the Asset took cover behind an old, dismantled cannon. And he saw it: a shaking black snout peeking out from the barrel of the cannon. He smiled softly.

“Hey girl.” He reached inside and grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. “You are fine, we’re getting out of here,” he mumbled, unzipping his hoodie, and settled the dog there, heart to heart.

Another blast of blue light and the Asset rolled on his side to avoid it. All right, enough was enough. He ran through the racks of firearms, straight to where the munitions were. If they wanted to go out with a bang, that was what they were gonna get.

He found the powder kegs almost immediately and hooked his metal hand in the lid to rip it up, and then he pushed, spilling gunpowder all over the floor. He did it with a second and a third, until the two guards reached him. They didn’t even hesitate to assess the situation. Big guns, small brains.

The first blue jet of light hit a case of bullets, but the Asset already knew that the second one… He turned and ran straight towards the metal sheet wall, flesh arm curled protectively around the dog. He just needed the right…

And hell broke loose.

Go back, start again, hold that thought.

_Yes. That’s right._

Because it all started with a dog, when hell broke loose.

The explosion lifted his feet from the ground, and the Asset covered his face with his metal arm. He crashed against the wall, exactly where two plates met, and the conjunction caved in, the warehouse collapsing behind him. The Asset hit the ground right on his metal arm and something snapped in his shoulder. The impact took his breath away, but he didn’t have time to recover, because suddenly he was slipping on the snow and tumbling and, finally, falling into the void.

*

Ию́ля 1926 г.

July 1926

> Project: Winter Soldier
> 
> Scientific analysis, 7 July 1926.
> 
> A comprehensive mental evaluation of Codename: Winter Soldier was conducted over the course of the past week. Diagnoses are varied, but most in Dept. X Science Team believe that his mental state is unstable. It appears his mind has reacted badly to increased action, possibly rebelling against the implanted programming he originally received. It has been previously noted that the subject had begun to exhibit more than usual curiosity, even to the point of questioning orders from superiors. His erratic behavior culminated in an attack on a fellow operative after his partly successful mission against the so-called Howling Commandos. Upon interrogation, he could not explain his actions.
> 
> As he has been trained as an assassin and not as a soldier, the amount of missions he has received following the start of the war may have caused him mental stress and triggered mental turmoil. It is therefore our recommendation that Codename: Winter Soldier be kept from active duty for at least six weeks, and that he undergoes Mental Implantation every five days. We believe this will correct his instability so that he can continue to be of use to Department X.

*

Где-то под Нянском, Октября́ 1930 г.

Somewhere near Nyansk, October 1930

The Asset opened his eyes and groaned. A lot of white. Everything was kind of blurry. He blinked once and he turned on his side, trying not to retch. His right hand sunk into fresh snow, which was at the same time a relief and extremely painful.

But.

First things first.

“Dog,” he mumbled in Sokovian, and smiled when a raspy tongue licked his cheek, hot breath caressing his skin.

Everything hurt.

He sat up with some difficulty and leaned against a nearby trunk. The puppy flopped her head against his thigh. He looked around. He seemed to be almost at the end of a slope. If he squinted, he could see a pathway, or maybe even a street not far away – he wasn’t quite sure. The big fallen oak on his right must have arrested his fall.

“You all right, girl?” He scratched the dog behind her ears, and she yelped. Well, she did seem unharmed.

Good. Mission accomplished.

A pause.

_And now?_

“We should move.” He got up and lifted the puppy with him. She scrambled to take cover in his hood.

He had no idea how he looked, but there was a good chance that ‘not particularly great’ was the most appropriate answer. He had to find new clothes, and possibly bandages, even if his wounds had already started to heal – he could almost feel the tissues rekindling, the broken bones snapping in their place. The air smelled of melted metal, and gunpowder, and burnt wood. He checked the position of the sun. He must have been out for less than an hour. Good.

The Asset reached the edge of the pathway and looked right and left; nobody in sight. He crouched, checking the tires and wheels and hoofprints in the snow. They must have been there for a while – it didn’t look like a very busy street. He started walking in the direction opposite the mountain, keeping himself close to the edge so he could hide quickly if someone approached. After a while, he arrived at a crossroads where he stopped, considering. There was a signpost with two arrows pointing in different directions, and the names of two places. Neither meant anything to him. He nibbled at his lower lip. He needed to find cover and new clothes.

“What do you think?” he asked the dog, and when she squirmed, he bent down to let her jump. She stayed put for a second, tail wiggling, then she started trotting on the path to the right.

The Asset shrugged. “Guess Novi Grad sounds better than Nyansk.”

Since it was October and the temperatures weren’t yet below zero, people still hung their wash to dry outside. It was also early morning, so people were sleeping and/or sleepy. People, he thought, were quite careless.

The Asset was able to snatch:

  1. a big, oversized army green coat;
  2. a grey sweater and a yellow one, for good measure;
  3. a pair of dark trousers, probably property of a miner;
  4. a pair of woolly gloves;
  5. a dark blue hat from a distracted newsboy, because why not?



He crushed the padlock of a shack with his metal hand and proceeded to change in front of a bunch of half-asleep chickens. The dog was looking at them with far too much interest.

“Hey, no funny business, they’re bigger than you,” he warned, dipping his flesh hand inside a trough and quickly running some water over his face. He washed away the blood from his thighs, wincing when he brushed the burn by mistake, and took off his sweatshirt and tank top. He put on the new clothes, trying his best to fit the jumpers over the metal arm without ripping them. He fastened the holsters under the coat, and regretted not stealing a handful of bullets before throwing himself out of the warehouse. He stuck the pile of dirty, ruined clothes under what looked like a bunch of uprooted shrubs ready to be burnt.

He looked at the dog, who was sniffing around the henhouse with interest, and grabbed a couple of eggs from the nearest nest, much to the utmost displeasure of the hen.

“Joy,” he whispered. The puppy didn’t acknowledge him.

 _Joy_.

That was the name of the dog in his mind. But it was not the same dog. He furrowed his brows. Who was that dog? Who was the boy? And the little girl? The very much real grey puppy was still following who-knows-what’s trail. The Asset took her by the scruff of her neck and held her in mid-air in front of his face. Whereas the other dog – the dog of the dream – had yellowish eyes and short brown fur, the dog in front of him had huge grey irises under what looked like… bangs. Funny. She kicked playfully, tongue lolling from her mouth, and purposely bumped her cold nose against the Asset’s.

A smile spread across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You need a name,” he decided, cradling her in his arms and piercing one of the eggs. He looked at her, comfortably snuggled against his right forearm, and drank from the hole, slowly, considering the options. Names are characteristics. You are called what you are. _Asset. Soldat. The Fist of HYDRA. The Shooter. Ghost. White Wolf. Winter Soldier._

What was she? What was this little ball of fur able to do? What was her true nature? He glanced at her and she drooled on his coat. She was warm and fuzzy, and her fur tickled his fingertips in a pleasant way.

He blinked.

“ _Ty pushistyy_ ,” he finally declared, satisfied.

She yelped, tongue out, and the Asset let her jump to the ground where she sat, wiggling her tail. The soldier threw away the shell of the empty egg and opened the door. “ _Davay, Pushok!_ Let’s go.”

*

Нови Град, Октября́ 1930 г.

Novi Grad, October 1930

“One ticket to Paris, please,” the Asset recited, an easy smile on his face.

He had observed people coming and going from the Novi Grad train station all day, trying to mimic their stride, the way they talked, the polite phraseologies they used to ask for information. He had listened to them buying tickets, exchanging money, chattering with the clerk like they were old friends. He had heard a thousand names of destinations muttered absent-mindedly, articulated clearly, mentioned without much fuss. Paris sounded exotic enough. Wherever that was.

So, after some time, he had stood in line and waited for his turn. But clearly his luck had run out, because right when the old man before him had stepped away, pocketing his ticket for – the irony – Nyansk, the nice woman who had been selling tickets all day finished her shift, and a middle aged, scruffy man took her place.

“Exit visa,” the clerk growled, brusquely.

He froze.

“Exit visa?” he repeated, confused. He couldn’t remember that sentence; the gentle woman had never asked for…

“No exit visa, no ticket! Next!” the man shouted, and the boy who was queueing behind the Asset slipped quickly in front of him.

He stumbled to the side, dumbfounded, and Pushok peeked out from one of his pockets, sensing his discomfort. _No exit visa, no ticket!_ What _was_ an exit visa? He smiled faintly when the dog pushed her nose against his gloved palm and scratched gently behind her ears. He glanced towards the ticket office, still confused, and glared at the scruffy man who was examining a red booklet that a middle-aged woman was showing him.

“See the Man in the Palace,” a grating voice whispered on his left.

The Asset flinched, one hand already on the holster under his coat. There was an ancient, shriveled up woman in front of him. She wore a dark battered head scarf, almost all the teeth in her mouth were missing, and one of her eyes was a sinister glass orb. _She looks like the witch of every fairy tale_. He frowned at the thought. Fairy tale? He didn’t know any fairy tales.

“The man who lives in the old palace,” she went on, covering her mouth with the hem of her cloak. “He can help.”

The Asset looked at her, not sure what to think. Pushok had gone back to hiding inside his pocket. “The Man in the Palace,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she looked around, warily. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

And just as she had come out of nowhere, in an instant she turned and disappeared into the crowd. In the blink of an eye she was gone.

It hadn’t been difficult to find the Palace, in the end. People looked at him strangely when he asked for directions, and most of them waved vaguely before running away, some spitting three times on the ground for some reason. But even if he hadn’t been lucky in that respect, after a short walk in the wide streets of the capital, he ended up in the huge square anyways. Call it chance, call it fate. He stopped near the base of a broken column, hands deep in his pockets, Pushok trotting by his side. It was almost nighttime, and the breeze lifted the snow in miniature whirlwinds. The only people around skirted the edges of the square, as if terrified by the huge, eerie building.

The Asset looked at it with blank eyes. It must have been magnificent, once, and it still bore the vestige of lost greatness. The sickly yellow of the few lampposts in the square created more shadows than light, slipping inside the broken windows and the destroyed French doors. The front door was barred, but the wood was old and eaten by worms. The plaster and the varnish of the decorations, once a bright aquamarine, were flaked and peeling off. Most of the golden edged volutes and capitals had fallen, the elegant columns now hives of bullet holes.

But the most horrifying wound was in the main body of the building. A huge chunk of it, what once was the left wing of the palace, was just… missing. Collapsed, disintegrated. The wall facing the square, with its beautiful, huge windows, wasn’t there anymore. What once upon a time must have been a splendid oval vault was now a mere skeleton. Time and weather had eroded the shattered stones and bricks and rendered them unrecognizable.

It looked like a missing limb.

Instinctively, he curled his right hand around his metal arm. He felt a strange affinity with the place: at a first sight it looked eerie, spectral; the truth was, it was just sad.

He went in through a side door, not bothering with stealth. He easily ripped off a couple of rotten boards with his metal arm and walked straight through the entrance hall. He stopped in the middle of it, looking around. It was a vast space, covered in dust, a huge staircase leading to a first landing. The floor was half covered by a worn-out carpet that in a past life must have been red. Pushok had her nose in the air, sniffing with her ears perked, her little paws leaving prints in the dust. The Asset walked up the stairs, looking around in fascination, eyes wide. The walls had been white; cascades of stuccos of clusters of grapes and vines painted in gold, now darkened by time, decorated the frames, the columns and the capitals. It had a beautiful melancholy.

He let his feet guide him through the rooms, one step after the other, the only noise was the soft tap of Pushok’s toe pads on the tiles. There was still a long table in what must have been a dining room, pushed against the wall. It was covered in dust and grime – plates and candlesticks, tureens and teapots, all thrown together and shrouded in garlands of cobwebs. Pushok snuck under the moth devoured tablecloth and slipped on the floor with an unamused noise.

The Asset leaned in. There was a plate on one side, all alone, far from the heap of forgotten flatware. He blew softly on the surface, and the gold reflected his distorted features. He lifted it, metal clinking against metal, and looked at himself, head cocked. There was still a bruise on his cheekbone, light stubble on his jaw, and his hair fell limp and dirty at the sides of his face; he had dark bags under his eyes and long lashes, and a confused expression in big, dark blue eyes. He blinked and, suddenly, there was a short-haired boy looking back at him. He dropped the plate. It fell to the floor with an unnatural clang. His breathing accelerated and his temples pulsed. He stayed still for a long moment, frozen on the spot. He was losing his mind.

“Pushok,” he called, and his voice sounded rough and strained.

The little dog trotted towards him and bumped her head against his ankle. The Asset felt his body relax. He swallowed the lump in his throat and started walking again, every step feeling extremely heavy.

He passed through an archway, the door ripped off its hinges, as if a whole bunch of someones had pushed violently against it. There was a tingle in the back of his head, and he had no idea if it was a good or a bad sensation. His head hurt.

The cold breeze caressed his exposed skin even before entering the next room. It was the huge, devastated, Great Hall. He walked, as if in a trance, down the elegant staircase, stopping at the bottom of it, the little dog warily close.

From the inside it was even worse: the roof had collapsed and shattered on the ground – fragments of plasters and bricks still laid on the precious wooden floor. Underneath, it was still possible to make out an articulated decoration of flowers created with the application of different types of wood: daisies, callas, roses. Three out of four walls were still standing, the windows just soulless craters, and above them, darkened frames still held paintings ruined by dust and grime and soot and dampness.

Every time the Asset blinked images pushed against the back of his head like the people must have pushed against the door behind him… He felt nauseous. He felt like he had something on the tip of his tongue. He leaned against the baroque bannister that still lined the graceful staircase – the staircase that had gently accompanied thousands of guests to masquerades and gala dinners and receptions. The marble was cold under his right hand, even through the glove, and the heartbreaking sight in front of his eyes started to become blurry and suddenly… he was crying.

His eyes filled with tears, and a desperate sob came out of his mouth and he was unable to… He was shaking and weeping, and it felt like short, ragged breaths were being ripped from his chest. He felt gutted, eviscerated, disemboweled. His head was spinning. He coughed and wheezed and gripped at the bannister with so much strength he felt it crumbling under his metal hand. He felt shattered by the force of his own pain. He couldn’t _stop_.

_What is happening to me?_

“Hey!” A voice called.

A sharp intake of breath.

“ _Chto ty zdes' delayesh'_?”

He raised his head.

“ _Kto ty_?”

_Who are you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  \- _Sobaka_ = Собака - Dog.  
> \- _Ty pushistyy_ = Ты пушистый. - You are fluffy.  
> \- _Chto ty zdes' delayesh'?_ = Что ты здесь делаешь? - What are you doing here?
> 
>  **Footnotes:**  
>  I don't have much to say except that again the paragraph about the Winter Soldier is taken from Captain America v. 5 #11, with some modifications.
> 
> Also, action sequences are a n i g h t m a r e.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the Three Musketeers start their adventure.

*

On the other side of the room there was a man.

Steve Rogers rushed down the staircase, his heart hammering in his chest. People didn’t usually break into the Palace. Sometimes kids did, daring each other to sneak inside as a test of courage, but that was a grown man and he looked in distress. He was leaning heavily against the curled bannister and he was breathing frantically. He had reacted to Steve’s call, but his face was half covered by a thick curtain of long hair. The state of the ballroom didn’t help Steve reach him. He tripped on a fallen and cursed under his breath. When he raised his head again, the man was back on his feet and stumbling on the last step before turning and running up the stairs like the devil himself was chasing him.

“Wait!” Steve yelled.

The man reached the landing, and suddenly Natasha appeared on the threshold of the door on the left, her face unreadable.

“What the hell is happening here?” she snapped, and the man stopped, trapped between the two of them.

He briefly looked at Natasha, then turned towards Steve, dirty locks covering his eyes, and his right hand slipped under his long coat, sleeves going past his fingertips.

“Wait!” Steve said again, raising his hands. “I’m unarmed. We’re both unarmed.”

He wasn’t exactly sure Natasha was actually unarmed but... Well.

The man seemed confused for a second, then, surprisingly, crouched down. Steve frowned and followed the man’s movements with his eyes, finally noticing a small dog – how had he not spotted the dog before? – scurrying into his arms. The man stood again, holding onto the dog like a castaway to a lifeboat, nose pressed against the fur.

Natasha stayed put, covering the door, but Steve took a step towards the man. He took one back. Steve moved forward on the staircase, the man moved backwards towards the wall. They went on with the silly dance until the man’s back hit the huge, ruined family portrait that still loomed over the room, like a bad omen from another time.

Steve kept his eyes stubbornly on the man.

“Hey,” he said again, softly. “Nobody is going to hurt you.”

He must have said the right thing, because the man’s shoulders slumped, and the dog wiggled out of his arms and stood at his feet, teeth bared and growling menacingly. Well, it would have been menacing if it wasn’t as big as Steve’s palm. His lips curled and when he looked back at the man, he found him eyeing fondly the small animal. Then, probably feeling watched, the man raised his chin to meet his eyes, and his dirty hair slipped to the sides of his face. In that moment, a ray of moonlight ran free from a prison of clouds and illuminated the man’s face… and the portrait beside him.

Steve felt all the air leave his lungs.

He was looking at the same indented chin, the same Cupid bow mouth, with that same pout, the same broad forehead – but, most of all, the same huge, wary blue-grey eyes. Steve felt dizzy. His knees suddenly started to get wobbly. He covered his eyes with a hand for a second and felt cold sweat against his fingertips. When he managed to compose himself, the man and the portrait were both in the shadows once more. Motionless.

“Aren’t you a cutie?”

Steve blinked; Natasha was squatting on the floor, rubbing the belly of the small dog who was yelping in delight, paws wiggling in the air. Steve looked down, then back up to the man in the shadows. It was… was it just a trick of the light? Did he imagine it? Was he… Maybe he imagined it. Maybe it was just suggestion. He didn’t really… It was the anniversary after all. It was supposed to be a strange day, and Steve’s mood was all over the place.

Natasha said something, and he heard himself blurt out, his voice strained and weird. Did he really talk?

The dog barked happily.

He must have.

The man looked at him like he had grown an extra head. Steve felt like that was a distinct possibility.

“Pushok,” the man said more clearly, and pointed to the little fella squirming under Natasha’s cuddles. He had a deep, rough voice, like that of someone not particularly used to talking.

When Steve had seen… had seen… had seen _him_ for the last time, his voice had just started doing weird things, pitching up, then down, without any apparent pattern. Would it sound like this stranger’s if he… if he…

The man was still looking at Steve and Steve _couldn’t think_.

“Oh.” Again, talking felt like a sort of out-of-body experience. He was there and he was speaking with a man who looked like his dead best friend and he had a dog and they were having a weird as hell conversation about the dog. “Pushok’s the dog’s name?”

Why was he having a weird as hell conversation about a dog?

The man shrugged, looked at the dog, and curled his arms around his waist, as if to protect himself. _He_ never did that. He was always open, defiant, sure. “Pooka sounds right, too.” As soon as he pronounced the nonsensical word, the dog barked again. “She likes it better, clearly.” The man didn’t seem particularly upset by the fact that a stranger had just renamed his dog. “What does it mean?”

He kept his eyes planted on the ground, locks of hair slowly falling over his forehead. A part of Steve wanted to walk past Natasha, grab the man by the shoulders, and move the hair from his face – just to look at him, just to _understand_. For an instant, it had seemed…

“What?” Steve heard himself asking.

“Pooka, what does it mean?” he asked again, with urgency.

“N-nothing,” Steve fumbled. “I just misheard you.”

The man glanced at him, confusion written on his face, then turned his head back down, a gloved hand slowly massaging the back of his neck. He murmured something under his breath, but it didn’t seem addressed to either of them.

Steve took another step in his direction, but Natasha stood and grasped at his elbow, and shook her head in a silent _no_. The little dog happily nuzzled her neck, propped on her shoulder. Steve looked at her with a lost expression, wondering if she had seen what he had seen, if she was feeling… But _no_ , she couldn’t feel what Steve was feeling, she couldn’t even understand why Steve was feeling what he was feeling because she didn’t _know_.

She didn’t know he was angry at himself for even making the connection at all, she wouldn’t be hating herself for being able to hope. Hope. Hope what? What, exactly? Hope that he hadn’t screwed up, all those years ago? Hope that he hadn’t lost everything, that awful night, thirteen years before? Hope that maybe, just maybe, he had managed to _save_ him? To save at least one of them?

It was just silly. More than that, it was cruel. To himself. To all that he had lost. To the memory of–

“Are you the Man in the Palace?”

Steve blinked out of his reverie and the man was looking at him – well, at his chin, or somewhere else that was not his eyes.

“The man in the– ”

“Who’s asking?” Natasha intervened, all-business, gripping his elbow tightly.

The man looked at her for long seconds, that confused expression still in place. Steve’s eyes couldn’t help but dart from the portrait of the lost Imperial Family to him, feeling a pang every time.

The man opened his mouth and hesitated, then whispered, as if he was asking a question. “Yasha.”

This time, Steve felt the ground falling under his feet. His knees felt weak, unable to bear his weight. He pulled away from Natasha and stumbled to the side, leaning heavily against the bannister, eyes squeezed so tightly he saw stars.

“I need a moment,” he croaked when he felt Natasha’s small, cold hand against the back of his neck.

It was just a name. Just a name. Such a common name, especially among people born around the same year he was – that this man probably was. The male heir had been named – Yasha, his family called of Sokovia had given the same name to their newborns. It was just how those things went.

But his _looks_.

Steve wanted to scream. Why was he doing this to himself? His Yakov, his Bucky, was lost. He had been dead for thirteen years. All of them had. The whole family. Completely wiped from the face of the Earth. He could still hear the girls’ cries and he could still see Bucky’s terrified face when Steve had pushed him into the tunnel. They were all lost. Bucky, the girls, even Steve the kitchen boy. He had died that night. They all had. It was just the light. And shadows. And the date.

October 31st.

“I’m sorry,” he said, licking his lips and straightening his shoulders.

When he looked back at the man – at Yasha – his eyes were dark and unreadable.

“Yasha,” Natasha repeated, and Steve winced. The man didn’t turn immediately, as though he wasn’t used to being called by his name. Natasha looked at him the way she looked at people she didn’t know, as if she was stripping them bare. But Yasha didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He just looked back at her like she was just some woman with his dog perched on her shoulder for some reason. “You know, you really look like– ”

“Natasha,” Steve growled.

“I need an exit visa,” Yasha said, taking his eyes off Natasha to look straight at Steve. “Someone told me to look for the Man in the Palace.” He nibbled at his lower lip, then added, very seriously, “I’m not supposed to tell you who.”

Steve blinked, then licked his lips. “I guess that’s me.”

Yasha nodded. “Can you provide me with one?” He asked, still avoiding meeting Steve’s eyes.

“Yasha,” Natasha cut in again. “There’s a last name that goes with that?”

Steve’s heartbeat accelerated, but Yasha just stared at her blankly. “A last name?” he repeated. He sounded lost, as if he had never heard the words in his entire life.

Natasha’s smile was wide and wolfish. Steve wanted to scream.

“Let me guess, you don’t remember.”

Yasha frowned and he fiddled with the hem of his coat. He was wearing heavy woolen gloves, and his clothes were clearly too big for him. In an instant, Pooka jumped down from Natasha’s shoulder and curled around Yasha’s ankles familiarly. Steve could see from the way Yasha’a shoulders relaxed and his jaw unclenched that he was very grateful to the little creature.

“I have only a few memories of my past,” Yasha said slowly, not looking at anyone in particular. “I just… I need to leave.” He glanced at Steve, almost pleadingly, and then he quickly looked away.

“Well, it’s your lucky day, Yashenka,” Natasha said, running a hand threw her mane of red hair. “We’re leaving too.”

Steve froze and slowly turned towards her. “We what?”

“You look like a smart boy,” she purred, completely ignoring Steve, and moved forward towards Yasha with the mannerisms she generally dedicated to the men she was about to seduce, or kill. Yasha stared at her, his face blank. She passed him by, and he turned towards her like a sunflower to the sun.

Now, they were both facing the painting. Steve burned to see Yasha’s expression while he looked at the ruined portraits. Natasha leaned a hand beside Bucky’s pouting face on the canvas. “There’s a rumor in Novi Grad,” she went on, her voice low and harmonious like a spell, “that one of the children of the Tsar escaped their fate.”

Steve’s face fell.

“And the old Dowager Empress in Paris is ready to pay an enormous amount of money to have that child back.”

_No._

Yasha had his back turned, but Steve noticed the raising and lowering of his shoulders – he had taken a deep breath. “I do kind of resemble him,” he said wryly. “I’m around the age he would be.”

Steve was completely petrified, incapable of saying or doing anything.

“You will have your share, of course. And free passage through Europe without spending a dime,” Natasha concluded light-heartedly, like they were discussing a shipment of wool.

Steve suddenly found himself grabbing her arm and pulling. “May I have a word?” he growled and dragged her into the room nearby, not bothering to wait for an answer.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted in English, unable to hold back. He didn’t care if Yasha heard, he didn’t care about anything that wasn’t his current rage at Natasha.

“Making us a lot of money and finally leaving this hellhole,” she answered plainly, crossing her arms. “And Steve, if you ever manhandle me like that again I will make you regret the day you were born,” she added, icily.

Steve stopped, then covered his face with both hands and took a deep breath. “Natalia, we are not tricking an old woman into thinking that this man is the grandson she thought had been slaughtered thirteen years ago. Even for a fortune.” Every single word stung leaving his mouth. “That is abysmal,” he added and bit his tongue before the words ‘even for you’ could leave his mouth. He had seen Natasha do all sorts of things during the war, all sorts of awful things. But war is war, and he had done so many things he wasn’t proud of too.

Her eyes were iron. “I am sure she won’t even notice a few million rubles missing.”

Steve felt his anger mount again. “Don’t you understand? It’s not a matter of money. She loved her grandchildren. You can’t give her hope like that. Making her believe that’s the real B- Yakov, that’s just cruel.”

“What if he is?” she shot back, and Steve’s jaw fell.

“Wha– ”

“They only found five bodies.”

Steve’s heart was beating so loudly he was sure Yasha could hear it from the other room.

“He has the same eyes, the same pout.”

“He’s dead,” Steve said, trying to sound as calm as possible.

“He doesn’t remember a thing of his past, not even his last name,” she went on. “Who says he’s not the tsarevich?”

Steve closed his eyes, his fists clenched at his sides, and bit his lips till he tasted blood.

“Furthermore, since your conscience chose to come back tonight of all nights, I guess if he’s not him, his grandmother will know, so it would just be an honest mistake,” she finished, eyeing a plate that was lying on the floor, intrigued. She picked it up and looked at it – her face did a strange thing.

“Either way, it gets me out of the country,” a voice said, and Steve turned.

Yasha was on the threshold, his dog plastered to his side like a third limb. He could speak English. Steve’s surprise must have shown, because Yasha gave him a small, bitter smile. He felt himself blush, then breathed in deeply.

“You think you could be him?” He didn’t mean for his voice to sound so harsh, so sharp. He hadn’t really meant to say anything like that at all.

Yasha shrugged, like he didn’t care much, then looked straight into Steve’s eyes, as if he was testing himself. “ _Steve_ ,” he whispered, his tone hesitant, lingering on the word.

Steve’s heart skipped a beat.

“I think Paris sounds exotic.”

*

> **Doctor’s notes:**
> 
> 5 November 1917
> 
> The subject wasn’t the only part of Karpov’s package. A small shiny object in the shape of a cube has been retrieved as well. It is surprisingly heavy and must at all times be covered. It is not possible to touch it bare handed. Whoever tried was disintegrated in an instant. I believe it is possible to work with this kind of unknown energy.
> 
> ‘"Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord", he exclaimed one day after the miraculous catch.’

*

31-го Октября́ 1930 г.

October 31st, 1930

The smell was what caught up to him before everything else; before the warmth, before the noise, before the sight of the warehouse collapsing. He smelled fuel burning and metal melting and shriveling up. He was going to burn alive. The knowledge of it, the fear that ran through him at the mere thought gave him the strength to get on his knees. He couldn’t burn. His work couldn’t burn. All those years…

How had the Asset gotten out of control? He had been so careful, after that first malfunctioning, he had been… He had to save what still was salvageable. He crawled, leaning heavily on his left arm, his right one just a bunch of nerves on fire, pain stabbing him at every step where the Winter Soldier had shot him. The door to the lab was open. He climbed over the dying man slumped over the threshold, and slithered toward the end of the room, past one of the conditioning chairs, straight towards the tidy cabinets in the back. Every foot gained was precious. He grabbed the handle of the medicine cabinet and pushed instead of pulling.

The secret passage opened without a sound, and Doctor Arnim Zola slipped inside, blood pouring from his shoulder, brushing red every metal step of the steep stairway. When he arrived at the bottom, black spots were popping behind his eyelids, but he had a job to do. He couldn’t allow his life’s work to be destroyed.

The cradle was at the center of the room, its conductors running along the floor like tentacles of a mythological beast – hard titanium, heavy and sharp, and soft tangles of silver, copper, and gold, braided together like the hair of a maiden. It was a work of art, his most beautiful creation, even more than the defective Winter Soldier.

He crawled towards it, grasping at the edges to prop himself up on his feet. He reached the handle of the glass cylinder at the heart of the cradle and unlocked it. At once, all the machinery in the room powered down. He let out a shaky breath and pulled. Inside the cylinder the object radiated a hypnotizing blue light. He had to take it away, he knew it. He had to save it. He had to run with the cylindrical container and he had to do it now, because the fire was close and the laboratory was full of flammable substances and he was weak.

And yet.

Zola felt a pull towards the shining tesseract – The Tesseract par excellence – calling to him like a siren song. Nobody had touched it in thirteen years. Nobody – said a voice in his head – had been worthy enough. He himself hadn’t dared after seeing people disintegrated before his eyes. His hands shook when he unclipped the bottom lid, and the cube fell on the floor with a tinkling noise. It seemed so harmless. The blue light of the core pulsed rhythmically like a heartbeat.

He reached towards it.

A blast of blue light. Then darkness.

*

> **HYDRA file, half-burnt:**
> 
> HYDRA
> 
> Security Level 7
> 
> Subject: TESSERACT
> 
> …NETIC FIELD: SPHERICAL COORDINATE SYSTEM
> 
> …TUAL DATA IF B_FLAG=1, INTERPOLATED DATA
> 
> …WITH RESPECT TO THE WGS-84 EARTH MODEL.
> 
> …ring to the will of sentient beings
> 
> …ul user can alter all reality to answer to
> 
> Note that the energy intervals
> 
> for the dominant elements C, N,
> 
> and O all differ somewhat from
> 
> the normal values of 10 to 15
> 
> MeV/nuc, and that the relative
> 
> abundance of the contributing
> 
> elements depend on the source
> 
> of the particles.
> 
> …of to be used, and deny certain wishes: Mephisto
> 
> …posed that a billion-sentient universally linked will
> 
> …this problem, and that the Cube could be as
> 
> …e Infinity Gems.
> 
> This browse data is designed
> 
> for … large scale particle and
> 
> … behavior. The data stream,
> 
> …gle algorithms.

*

When Zola opened his eyes, he found himself in a desolate land. The sky was dark, with low purple clouds. The sun appeared to be in a perpetual eclipse, almost completely covered by a dark disk, only a thin circle of violet light visible. He propped himself up on his elbows, and the first thing he noticed was that his shoulder did not hurt anymore. In fact, it seemed to be completely healed. He blinked and sat up, looking around more clearly. He was at the top of an overhung cliff, big granite slabs on every side, no vegetation in sight.

He rose to his feet, and only then he noticed that the Tesseract was in his hand. It wasn’t hurting him, it wasn’t burning him – it was warm, like something alive. He attempted a couple of stumbling steps and blinked repeatedly to shake off the dizziness. His glasses were crooked on his nose.

There was a pathway through the rocks, completely out of place with its surroundings. It was built in neat grey bricks, six thin columns on each side, like soldiers at attention. On the verge of the abyss, two imposing towers stood still, like the Hercules pillars to another dimension. And between them, there was a man.

Zola took another step, the dusty earth creaking under the soles of his shoes, and the man turned.

He was tall and lean, covered head to toe in a dark woolen cloak. Zola raised the cube, and the blue light illuminated a gaunt face. The doctor flinched at the sight: it was red as blood, similar to a skull, from the hollow cavity of the nose to the prominence of the cheekbones. He had eyes white and red like everything else, eerie and menacing. The man, or what was left of him, smiled.

“Doctor Zola,” he said, almost cloy. “You have a present for me.”

*

1-го Ноября́ 2010 г.

November 1st, 1930

The rails vibrated and the train wobbled on its tracks as it cut swiftly through the countryside. There was something wrong with Steve, Natalia could feel it in her bones. He had been behaving strangely since the morning before, and his overreaction to her plan was out of line to say the least. She wasn’t one to believe in fate, but the appearance of a man in the middle of the bombed ballroom the same day the news of the lost Voinov had spread – it had seemed an awful lot like a sign from heaven. And she had been waiting for a sign for a while now. _Leave fucking now_.

Sure, this so-called Yasha was in appalling condition and in desperate need of a cleanup and was probably just some factory worker who hit his head on a machine or maybe recently escaped from an asylum, but she wasn’t one to complain. She had done more with less. Not to mention she had time to clean him up and transform him into granny dearest, brooding Steve permitting.

“Hey, _solnyshko_ ,” she called, leaning against the door of the train compartment.

His nose was literally pressed against the glass, and his hot breath had created a ring of condensation on the surface. His cute dog was sleeping in his lap. He tapped a finger against the glass, gently. Two quick taps, one slow, four quick, one slow, pause, three slow, pause, two slow, four quick, two slow. Natalia smiled, impressed: he was using Morse code.

_Yes?_

Smartass.

“There’s a hot bath in the next carriage. And you are filthy.”

He turned towards her, his usual frowning pout back in place, before his eyes settled on one of the empty seats. “Where’s Steve?” he asked in impeccable English.

That was a good question.

Steve had disappeared five minutes after they had boarded the train, mumbling something about a passport check and making sure they had everything settled. He had been gone for almost an hour now.

“Probably stopped to gamble away all of our possessions in the smoking carriage,” Natalia answered.

Yasha looked worried. “That doesn’t seem like a good idea. I should retrieve him,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“I’m just kidding.” She sat beside him, scrunching her nose at him just for show. She had been in the trenches and undercover ops in the forest before; she was not actually bothered by a couple days of stench.

They looked at each other as she pet Pooka’s head who whimpered in her sleep but didn’t wake. They were all quite tired.

“How did you two meet?” she asked, cocking her head towards the puppy.

Yasha shrugged. “She appeared when I needed her,” he said quietly, eyes darting towards the window.

“Was it recent?”

He nodded.

“She seems to like you.”

Yasha raised a corner of his lips. “Would be the first,” he commented, and there was a sad undertone that made Natalia uneasy.

They stayed silent for a while, the firs and pine trees hurtling by on either side of the train, similar to the strokes of a painter. Natalia thought about the unfinished paintings in Steve’s workshop. They would dust and rot, like everything else in the palace.

She reached out to the wooden table that divided the two lines of seats and started tapping, almost casually. She hadn’t used Morse code in years, but the familiar motions came back easily.

_How come you know Morse code?_

Yasha smiled faintly, his eyes distant for a second. Then, , his right hand still wrapped up in a glove, the left one, equally covered, curled around Pooka.

_Army._

She raised a perfect eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t remember your past.”

Yasha considered his answer, leaning his temple against the cold window, his eyelashes fluttering. “I remember some things,” he conceded, then he almost smiled. “What about you?”

Natalia expected the question, so she tapped with a smug smile on her lips: one long, two short, one long, two short, one long, pause, four short, pause, two short, one long, four short.

_Army._

He looked surprised – Natalia was sure he wasn’t an easy man to surprise.

“What? A woman can’t be in the army?” she teased.

“Now that explains it,” he said, thoughtful.

“Explains what?” Natalia didn’t like not being ten moves ahead, and this guy, well, he was good. He was very good with the mysterious act, and she didn’t like anyone else to be good at the mysterious act.

“How you two met.” He gestured towards Steve’s suitcase on the luggage rack.

Natalia didn’t ask him why he thought Steve was military or, well, ex-military. It wasn’t that obvious from the point of view of a casual bystander, but Yasha was something else. He was quiet and observant, and he couldn’t have missed the way Steve had organized his suitcase in the early hours of the morning, or how his workshop only seemed overcrowded, but in actuality everything was stacked and arranged with meticulous precision.

“Which side?” Natalia asked, pretending light-heartedness.

Yasha looked her straight in the eye and his dark blue irises felt like pure ice; she felt like he was reading her very soul. She didn’t move, though, and bore his searching gaze. When he spoke, he sounded lost, and the discrepancy between his eyes and his voice felt as heavy as a mountain.

“I don’t remember,” he answered.

After that, he gently moved Pooka from his lap to Natalia’s, as if it was a normal occurrence. The dog wiggled her butt but didn’t stir. “I’ll have that bath,” he said quietly, and she nodded.

“Find Steve,” he added. “He shouldn’t be alone,” and walked in the right direction without even asking, as though he knew perfectly well where the bathroom was.

***

Steve was decompressing. It had been a crazy day and a crazy night, and he felt like a lifetime passed since he last slept, even if it was fewer than forty hours before. He spent the night before forging documents in his workshop, while ignoring Natasha’s attempts to talk and Yasha’s inquisitive eyes. The same Yasha that refused to stay in one of the thousand empty rooms in the old servants’ quarters of the palace – instead he curled in a ball in Steve’s workshop, all wrapped up in his coat, gloves, and hat and watched him work, carelessly cuddling his dog. At some point, five minutes or three hours after Natasha had gone to bed, Yasha started touching and fiddling with at the closest object, which of course ended up being a goddamn music box, until Steve snapped at him to stop and almost won himself a bullet to the head.

Alright. No snapping at the new guy.

They didn’t talk after that. They didn’t communicate. They didn’t even acknowledge each other’s presence. Steve forged documents – _Grant Stevens, Natalie Rushman, James Barnes_ – and Yasha watched him. And that was it.

So, Steve was decompressing – head between his knees, hands crushing his own ankles – squeezed between an empty bird cage and an expensive-looking leather trunk labeled A. E. S. in the baggage car. He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know why on Earth he had agreed to be on a train with Natasha and a complete stranger who looked like his dead childhood best friend and who was ready to blow people’s brains out every time he was startled. Oh, yeah, and he was going to con a ninety-year-old Dowager Empress into thinking said weirdo was her last remaining family.

_What was he doing? How was this his life?_

It had been a perfectly normal day. Well, as perfect as the thirteenth anniversary of everything going to shit could be. Thirteen years. Thirteen years of guilt and repressed feelings and just death, death, and more death. He’d found a balance, he thought. He had been good enough at hiding after the end of the war, he had been cautious. He had managed to keep his mother safe until she passed away the previous summer. Nobody had tried to kill him or arrest him in three years. It wasn’t a bad record. He… survived. It seemed like it was the only thing he was capable of doing while everyone else around him just kept leaving, kept abandoning him, kept _dying_.

And that’s how Natasha found him in the baggage car.

“You need a shave,” she said, throwing a grooming kit at him. It bounced off his head and fell to the floor.

“Leave me alone.”

“I need you to stop this, Steve.” Her voice was fonder now, and Steve hated her a bit for it. A part of him ached for a fight. “I don’t know why you are reacting so badly to this, but I need you to get your shit together and work with me.”

He wanted to cry. “I already worked. I made the documents,” he mumbled, eyes closed, but his grip on his ankles slackened.

“Yes, and now I need you to sit in the carriage with me and Yasha and act like this is a perfectly normal vacation.” She slipped her small hands into his palms and pulled. Steve stumbled and rose to his feet. He still felt quite dizzy. He blinked to regain his bearings. The little dog was curled around Natasha’s ankles.

“She really likes you,” he commented, and couldn’t prevent his voice from sounding mildly surprised.

“Of course she does, she’s a smart dog,” Natasha scoffed.

A weak smile colored Steve’s brooding expression. He couldn’t remember seeing pets of any kind around Natasha. He couldn’t _imagine_ pets of any kind around Natasha. Maybe a Siberian tiger, but, well, that wasn’t really a pet, was it.

Steve ran a hand through his hair and picked up the grooming kit before asking the question he didn’t really want to ask. “Where is he?” He didn’t add, _You shouldn’t let him out of your sight_ , but it was heavily implied. He was pretty sure Natasha knew him well enough to grasp the subtext.

“I snuck him into the first-class bathroom,” was her candid answer, but then she added, “Or, well, he snuck himself in, I guess.”

Steve looked at her, half puzzled, half accusing.

“He needed a bath,” she explained, light-heartedly. “He would never look like his photograph otherwise.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “He’s not supposed to. Not too much at least, since it’s a combination printing.”

It took a lot of time to do, combination printing. He used old photographs and snapshots of people he collected over the years, then used their negatives, changing exposures, scaling the different parts to match up, using his out-of-fashion generator to change the lighting. He then proceeded to correct the details with watercolors and, finally, he sprayed the paper with the right chemicals to give the impression of an old photograph. It was probably one of his best works, all done under pressure, with Yasha’s eyes on the back of his neck most of the time over a sleepless night after an emotionally draining day. Talk about working under stressful conditions.

He could have just taken a picture, of course, but the mere idea scared him. He had been scared to feel the need to compare that photograph to the old mementos closed in some box in the attic. To find something there he didn’t want to find. That he didn’t want to _hope_ to find.

“Just shave, Steve. And trim that mane of yours.” Natasha patted his shoulder. “And get your ass back in the compartment, because the Prince of Forgetfulness keeps asking for you.”

***

The Asset–

No.

Yasha–

Closer.

James–

 _Yes_. Changing all these names in such a short amount of time was quite confusing, thank you very much, especially when they didn’t mean anything. Well, they meant _something_ , but they meant something far back in his mind, and he really didn’t want to go there because he hated the headaches, so…

Anyway.

 _James_ was soaking in a tub. It was a strange feeling. There was a lot of water and . It was pleasantly warm, and he was pretty positive he had never experienced something like this before. He wasn’t sure he was supposed to submerge his metal arm, but he had confused memories of swimming and waiting, completely covered in snow, for hours, so it may not be an issue. He slipped under the surface until the only thing visible was his long hair floating like algae, all the noises muffled. He stayed there until bubbles slipped from his mouth and the need to breathe became too strong.

He was _pretty_ sure he wasn’t supposed to be here. Everything was very expensive – porcelain and precious woodwork and golden appliances – and it didn’t really fit with their second-class compartment that – in his humble opinion – was still quite nice. He rolled a bar of soap in his hands and massaged his scalp before rinsing off. He felt better. He felt more functional.

It had been… an intense forty-eight hours to say the least. He hadn’t been expecting this outcome, and that was… something new for him. The Asset always had every option covered, every possible ending already taken into account. He was supposed to find the man who lived in the palace, get an exit visa from him – forcefully, if necessary, since he only owned a few bills – and run. But something went wrong. He had malfunctioned in the ballroom and too many things happened at the same time and–

 _Steve_ happened.

“Steve,” he mumbled underwater, and the burst of bubbles made him smile.

Steve was a strange name. A foreign name. ‘Steve’ the redhead – Natasha, Natalia – called him. ‘Steve’ sounded like bells in his ears, something familiar, almost like the memory of a dream. A dream that made his head hurt like the dog one, _Joy_. Well, apparently almost everything made his head hurt these days, so it probably wasn’t Steve. It was just... It was confusing to stare at him, and it was _very_ painful to look him in the eye. He wasn’t sure why, but it just split his head open.

He rolled his metal shoulder, pressing gently against the plates. He then pressed his fingertips against his palm. H . He knew it was special, unique. _The Fist of HYDRA_.

Talking about war with Natalia made something click inside his head; it wasn’t safe to talk about the arm. So, the arm had to be covered, at least until he understood where they stood. HYDRA soldiers had been terrified of the _Soldat_ but at the same time they had been devoted to him to the point of servility, as if to a God. He _remembered_ that. He remembered the flattery of it, the sense of power he felt, until– _Wipe him and start over. Mental Implantation Procedure: three, two, one._ He could never _feel_ too much. That was dangerous.

_Feel._

Natalia didn’t seem to be one to feel a lot on the surface, but James could read her: _s_ _he_ wasn’t confusing at all. He felt an affinity, like with the old, mutilated palace. She moved like him, she did things like he did – in some sense she thought like him. _Which side?_ she had asked, and he knew that if he had asked her the same question she wouldn’t have answered. She couldn’t. He liked that. He liked that Natalia was on Natalia’s side, and no one else’s.

Natalia was Natalia’s. And James wanted to be James’.

Most of all, he wanted to be James far away from Sokovia. Natalia’s plan was a plan like any other; not particularly solid, and with more to gain for her and Steve. Attracting attention to himself in such a public way could easily sentence him to death. He knew perfectly well that the ten goons he had taken out weren’t the only ones who were going to chase him – he was the _Winter Soldier_ gone rogue – but… He had time to think it through. He had weeks through Europe to decide if he wanted to disappear or if he wanted to pursue some sort of scam in Paris.

He thought about the old woman looking for her grandchildren. He thought about her _hope_. He wondered… if he managed to make her believe he was her lost grandchild Yakov, would it give her some happiness? Probably. Would it give him some? Unknown. Well, at least if he was killed off by HYDRA at some point, she would most likely keep Pooka with her after his death. So, everyone won. Steve and Natalia got their retirement money, Pooka got a good life with the Old Dowager Empress, and the Old Dowager Empress got some time to properly say goodbye – to an imposter, sure, but she wasn’t supposed to find out. Besides, he was good at that: lying, stealth, deceiving.

Happily ever after. For everyone.

“Pooka,” he said, lips brushing the water and bubbles jumping on the surface like frogs.

He smiled. He kind of liked meaningless names.

***

When James walked back inside the compartment, Steve was perched on the edge of the seat, elbows firmly pointed on the little table near the window and his face full of shaving cream. He was passing the razor under his chin, eyelids almost closed and long lashes trembling as he tried to be as precise as possible while looking into a portable mirror. James stood still, his arms full of dirty clothes bundled up in the towel Natalia had thrown at him. It was almost hypnotizing, following the path of the razor on Steve’s skin, watching him as he shook it in the small basin of water at his right, his smooth cheeks revealing themselves step by step. When he finished, James cleared his throat and Steve flinched, turning towards the door. Well, it would seem it had been a good idea to wait for him to put down the razor.

He looked younger without the beard, but at the same time sharper, more severe. He had a strong jaw and full lips, very red against his pale complexion. James felt the headache pressing against his temples. He focused on the grooming set on the table.

“Yasha,” Steve breathed out, and the name alone sent a shiver down James’ spine.

It was the first time Steve pronounced it out loud. The corner of James’ lip curled up against his will. “Hi,” he said, stepping in and stuffing the makeshift bundle in a corner.

Steve looked at it, then back at James, transfixed.

“What are you wearing?” he croaked after several long seconds.

James lowered his gaze. It seemed appropriate enough; dress shoes, a pair of dark trousers, a shirt, a blue peacoat, leather gloves. Did he get something wrong? Steve was wearing something similar, gloves aside. “Appropriate clothes,” he answered, plainly.

“Whose appropriate clothes?”

Oh.

He shrugged.

Steve sighed, then ran a hand through his still hair. “You can use my clothes until we get to Germany,” then, sharper, “Don’t steal again. We don’t want to attract attention.”

Don’t.

_Don’t answer back. Don’t leave any witness. Don’t speak. Don’t move. Don’t leave your room. Don’t fight. Don’t scream._

James stiffened. “I can assure you I’m perfectly capable of not attracting attention,” he said with a coldness that surprised him.

He was the Winter Soldier. His entire life had been stealth and deceit. He had carefully chosen the clothes from five different trunks and he had identified those which looked like whole wardrobes; they even had hangers and drawers. There were so many clothes inside each of them that he seriously doubted the owners would notice some of them were missing.

Steve’s jaw clenched. “Stealing clothes from other passengers kind of corresponds with attracting attention,” he hissed.

“I have been careful,” James articulated, looking Steve in the eye. As expected, it felt like ripping his head in half.

_I have been careful._

_No, you didn’t, or you wouldn’t be stuck in bed!_

He suppressed a moan at the two sentences that exploded in his mind, shaking him to the core.

“Careful is not enough,” Steve shot back.

_Your best is not enough, Soldat._

When the door of the compartment opened wide, James’ neck snapped towards it, and he realized with a shiver of horror that he was standing and he had slammed his hands on the table and he had… cracked the wood. _Fuck_.

Steve looked like he had just been slapped. James was ninety-five percent sure he hadn’t hit him.

“Boys.” Natalia looked menacing, even with Pooka perched on her head, tongue lolling. “Dinner.” She dropped a paper bag on the cracked table.

“Thank you,” Steve mumbled, automatically.

James grunted, curled up in the corner and let out a low whistle. Pooka jumped down and ran to his side, cuddling up against his leg. Warm. Grounding.

Silence fell. James kept his eyes on Pooka, twining his fingers through her fur. He knew that Steve and Natalia were having a silent conversation of eyebrows lifted and soft huffs and waving and frowns.

“They uhm… fit you well,” Steve said at some point, and James glared at him – at the top of his head, just to be safe. “The clothes,” Steve added, and he was clearly doing his best not to add ‘stolen’ in the sentence.

“Oh,” James answered, blankly.

Was that…? A peace-offering? A compliment? He looked at Natalia, but she was picking the soft insides from a small loaf of bread. So, not prompted.

A very strange compliment indeed.

Was it a way to say sorry?

“Thank you,” he added after a second, letting go. Was he supposed to say something back? Something to make up for the cracked table? That hadn’t been a smart thing to do. The silence was more excruciatingly tense than his headaches. “You look very angular.” He paused. “Without a beard.”

Steve stared.

Natalia broke the now hollow loaf and threw one half at Steve, the other at James. They caught it at the same time.

“There are _chebureki_ in the bag,” she said, plainly.

She had a knowing smile on her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  \- _Solnyshko_ = солнышко - sunshine.
> 
>  **Footnotes:**  
>  There is a very very hidden Easter Egg in this chapter. I wonder if someone spots it.  
> Also, a lot of Steve-Angst and Steve-You're-Always-So-Dramatic-Rogers.
> 
> The quote at the end of the Doctor's Notes is from Luke's Gospel 5:8. 
> 
> The HYDRA file is actually [SHIELD's file on the Tesseract](https://i.imgur.com/9Itxu3S.jpg). I will say more on the Tesseract in this fic in the next chapter because I do not want to spoil anything, but you may have already noticed that there are some differences between this Tesseract and the MCU's.
> 
> Maybe some history nerd (like me!) noticed, but Nat's comments about Yasha/James' real identity (factory worker, recently escaped from an asylum) are based on the real identity of the most famous "Anastasia" of the XX century: [Anna Anderson](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Anderson). Anna Anderson was the most famous among Anastasia's impostors, she was a woman with psychiatric problems who claimed to be Anastasia for the first time in the 1920s. She managed to convince even people who had known the Imperial Family and, most definitely, is the main reason behind the legend of Anastasia's survival.
> 
> If you are dying to know what a proper luxurious bathroom on a train would look like, [this](https://it.depositphotos.com/205523072/stock-photo-bathroom-personal-wagon-train-joseph.html) was Stalin's personal bathroom on his private train.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where they **catch** the train.

(Picture from Canva)

*

Не-время

Non-time

Vormir was a non-place in a non-time. It was an infinite expanse of nothingness, at the center of everything and far from anything. It was a world, a dimension created by the Tesseract itself, in all its infinite power. From Vormir, all reality was accessible, now that the Tesseract was back in the hands of its Master.

The Red Skull was watching, eyes fixed on the images projected by the cube, looking for something. He had already taken every piece of information from the little doctor, every fragment of knowledge he had. After the apparent failure of his plan, after he fell in the river and his imbecile acolytes transformed years of careful planning - grooming the Tsar’s heir, keeping him under his control - into a messy siege of the palace, his experiment had in fact progressed. The child who had ruined everything had become the Soldier, who by a turn of Fate, had been created and ultimately fulfilled the scope for which he had been bred. _The Fist of HYDRA_. The perfect Soldier, ready to comply with every order. But now, now he was acting up again, like he always used to back when he was nothing more than a spoiled little brat. You can never trust children; they turn on you like rabid dogs.

But he wasn’t important anymore. With the power of the Tesseract and the abilities of Armin Zola, the Red Skull would become the only possible ruler. A whole nation was ready to march under his command. He’d had thirteen years to plan it, thirteen years to plot his comeback.

But he hated loose ends.

A cruel smile cut across his face when the Tesseract finally showed him what he needed to see.

*

ию́ня 1926 г.

June 1926

_The Asset was in position, the M1981 rifle in his hand, cold iron and cold wood against cold fingertips. In moments, his target would appear. The handler had given him all the intel necessary. He was going to take down – CLASSIFIED. He was to recognize him by an old-fashioned shield painted on the back of his jacket over his shoulder, like a walking target._

_What a stupid move._

_An easy job._

_The target appeared, and through the gunsight the Asset could see him clearly; a green uniform, the stupid shield insigna on the shoulder – three stars and vertical stripes. The Asset shot without taking proper aim – the target wasn’t_ that _far – but the man moved for who-knows-what reason and the bullet only grazed his side. The Asset quickly reengaged the bolt and, before the target could react, he fired again. The second bullet hit the back of his thigh._

_The Asset slid the bolt back again. This was just sloppy. He was going to be punished. He took aim. The third bullet hit the target on the right shoulder – right through his stupid shield – before he was able to take cover. The Asset heard his yell of pain._

_Re-engage bolt. Take aim. Finally, the fourth shot hit him in the guts. Good – he would bleed out in minutes. The target stifled a moan, keeling over, his hand blindly scrabbling to cover the wound._

_The Asset peered at him through the gunsight, just to make sure, and Steve Rogers’ terrified eyes stared straight back at him._

James woke up gasping, his heart beating like a hammer, blood pumping through his veins furiously. He sat up and ran shaking hands through his hair, tugging on it, eyes wide. His legs were tangled in a rough army blanket, and Pooka was nuzzling his feet looking quite worried. Well, as much as a dog could look concerned. James glanced to his left: the line of seats was empty, neither Steve nor Natalia were in the compartment. Small mercies. He sighed, dropping his forehead to his knees. It was just a dream. He closed his eyes, but still Steve’s horrified expression was all he could see. He felt nauseous. He reached out and Pooka snuggled easily in his arms. He sunk his face into her fur, eyes wide open, head pulsing.

“It was a nightmare,” James said out loud in Sokovian; his voice sounded foreign.

He didn’t want to kill Steve. Yes, they had a fight but– It wasn’t– His breath shook when his eyes fell on the cracked table. He didn’t want to hurt him. Steve had given him an order but… he wasn’t a handler. And James had overreacted. They were tired and tense, and when they had finally gone to sleep, it had been the first time James had slept in around seventy-two hours. Nightmares were the obvious consequences.

Dreams of him killing _Steve_.

“I don’t want to kill him,” he whispered to himself, and the realization hit him like a brick.

He didn’t _want_ to kill Steve. He didn’t want to do it, so he wasn’t going to do it. That was something that had never been allowed before. Nobody had ever cared what the Asset wanted. And, in the end, the Asset didn’t want anything. He just obeyed. _Ya gotov otvechat’_. But he wasn’t the Asset anymore. He didn’t want to be the Asset anymore.

He wanted to be Yasha, to be James, to be a man with a dog travelling through Europe. He wanted to be a name, not an apposition: the Winter Soldier, the First of HYDRA, the Soldat, the Asset. He wanted to be able to choose not to kill. And he didn’t want to kill Steve. “I don’t want to kill him, I don’t want to kill him,” he kept repeating, until the mantra lulled him back to sleep.

***

“James?” Steve knocked delicately against the glass, pushing the sliding door open and slipping inside the compartment.

James was reading, all bundled up in the corner, Pooka lazily draped over his socked feet. The army blanket Steve had covered him with was still draped over his legs, and a book propped up against his knees. He raised his head, but then his eyes darted quickly back to the book.

“Hi,” he said without looking up again, voice hoarse.

“Hi.” Steve leaned against the door, an awkward half smile on his lips. “Whatcha reading?”

James ran his gloved index finger over the spine of the book. “It’s… I found it in your suitcase,” he mumbled, hesitant. He was clearly pondering if it had been a good idea to go through Steve’s stuff after all.

“It’s okay,” Steve hurried to say, though he felt an unpleasant pang. “Which one is it?”

There was a part of him that knew. He already knew, before James opened his mouth. He knew and he didn’t want to know and he didn’t want his heart to beat that fast with hope because of the knowledge that of the four books Steve had brought, James had chosen…

“ _Treasure Island_ ,” he said with a little smile. “I really like it.”

Steve felt a lump forming in his throat. “Of course you do,” he choked and gripped the doorframe to stay upright. “It’s a great book.”

It didn’t mean anything. There were just four books in his suitcase and only two were novels, so it was an obvious choice.

“It’s the first book I remember reading,” James added, caressing the pages, and Steve’s heart sunk. James frowned. “I mean, I don’t… I don’t remember having read anything in my life. But I’m reading now. So now is the first time I’ve read. From… uhm… my point of view?” He sounded quite insecure.

“Yeah.” Steve forced a smile and slumped down into the opposite seat. “I guess that makes sense.”

Silence fell, and Steve spent minutes that felt like hours looking at James’ gloved hands playing with the book cover, pressing the pointy corners against his fingertips. Steve wondered why he always wore gloves. He never took them off, and it wasn’t that cold inside the train. He licked his lips. He wanted to ask, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t go over well.

“Natasha told me you remember being in the army,” he said instead.

James remained still and silent for so long that Steve was beginning to lose hope he’d answer at all, when he said, “Yeah, I guess I was,” he added, with a bemused expression.

A crease appeared between Steve’s eyebrows. “Special ops?” he asked boldly, biting back the obvious question. He wouldn’t ask if James had been HYDRA or SHIELD. Sokovia was a big country, and plenty of soldiers had fought on both sides. Nevertheless, Steve knew that there was something off in James, a coldness within that… he couldn’t explain it. A part of Steve somehow knew they had been fighting on opposite sides.

James cocked his head and looked at him straight in the eye, and Steve felt stripped down to his bones. Those eyes. He had such expressive eyes. They were so similar to–

The childish bubble of hope in his chest kept expanding, making it hard to breathe under James’ scrutiny.

“Y-you know languages,” he stammered. “I assumed…”

“Sokovian, English, French, German, Romanian, Latin, and Italian,” James interrupted promptly, his voice sounding weirdly mechanical.

Steve’s eyes widened in shock. “Oh,” he paused. “Wow. That’s… wow.”

Unexpectedly, James’ cheeks flushed bright red and he hid his face behind the book. Well, Steve guessed, everyone likes compliments. He thought about James’ blank face when he told Steve he looked angular without a beard, and he couldn’t help chuckling.

“What?” mumbled James, clearly still flattered but embarrassed at the same time.

“Nothing, nothing. So, you… the army.” He went back to the main topic. “Special ops, mh?”

James resurfaced, still quite pink. “I think so,” he confirmed, then nibbled at his lower lip. “Were you special ops too?”

Steve lifted the corner of his mouth, fingers intertwining in his lap. “I was a Captain,” he answered, keeping out all the Foreign-Fella-Who-Had-Risen-Through-the-Ranks crap. “And yeah, my Commandos… we did special ops.”

“ _Captain,_ ” he said. There was almost fascination in his voice. James rolled the English word on his tongue as if tasting a chocolate truffle.

Steve felt his own cheeks blush, and he opened his mouth to ask James if he remembered his rank – that was a regular topic among veterans – but James’ eyes went out of focus for an instant and his hands leafed quickly through the pages of the book, stopping at some point near the end. He pressed his palm against a page, staring blankly at the words, then closed the book, keeping a finger inside.

Steve was positively lost. He forgot what he wanted to ask. Silence fell again. They slumped in their seats, exchanging furtive looks when they thought the other was unaware. But Steve felt James’ eyes on him like a scorching poker.

When he spoke again, James was tapping absentmindedly against the dark cover, unconsciously following the rhythm of the rain on the window.

“Do you miss it?” he asked with a wisp of voice.

Steve flinched, startled, and glanced at him. “My unit? Yeah,” he answered, honestly.

He missed all of them, dead or alive. After they lost the war, they vowed not to contact each other in case letters and telegrams were intercepted. Most of them were going abroad. Steve hoped to the bottom of his heart that all of them found their way to safety. A selfish part of him really wished that at least one of them would decide to break the vow, one day, and find the others. Heck, maybe he would be the one.

But James shook his head. “No,” he said, simply. “The war.”

Steve gaped.

The obvious answer was _No_ , of course not. It was a goddamn war. He lost friends, and he lost that small portion of everything he’d slowly built, after SHIELD was defeated. But. But in some sense, he had never known a world without war. He didn’t _remember_ a world without war. His father died in a war, his best friend and all his family died in a coup, he spent his teenage years in the company of soldiers gone rogue, and he started to fight in the civil war when he wasn’t even eighteen.

He was a soldier. He was a Captain. The last three years with Natasha, living in the palace, forging papers or art and helping people escape from HYDRA… it didn’t really seem like the war had ended. It wasn’t the same, of course, it was a different fight. Sometimes it seemed like a stranger’s dream, like a life that belonged to someone else, while he was just waiting on the edge of the next fight. And if he thought about it… if he looked back at his missions with the Howling Commandos, at his undercover operations with or without Natasha… There was a longing inside of him. A guilty _longing_.

But he couldn’t answer. He was ashamed of the answer. What kind of weirdo missed wartime?

“Do you?” he croaked, defensively.

James puckered his lips in thought. “Sometimes,” he started, slowly. “I think I am not made to live outside of the fight,” he admitted with candor, massaging his left arm, like a reflexive impulse.

Steve’s breath caught in his throat. _I know, right?_ He wanted to say, to yell, to gloat, but he bit his tongue. “We fight for peace,” he managed to mumble, repeating the words of someone else.

James looked at him like he could measure the weight of Steve’s soul with his bare hands. “And you got it,” he conceded. “But not the peace you wanted.” He sounded sad, almost apologetic.

Steve hunched over and hid his face in his hands. He was shaking with too many conflicting emotions: he felt anger, anger towards James– _But this is_ your _peace. You fought for HYDRA, didn’t you?_ And he felt longing– _Yes! Yes, I miss it every fucking day._ And he felt dread– _I don’t know what I am when I’m not a soldier._

And he felt, God help him, he felt _understood_. He felt understood by a man he had only just met. A man who looked like a grown up version of the person who had been the most important thing in his life back when life seemed easier. A man who claimed to have no memories but who seemed to know exactly what buttons to push. A man who most likely had killed for the other side.

_God, forgive me._

A squeaky sound came from the other side of the compartment and the air changed. Steve shuddered when he felt James’ hand running through his hair, fingers gently rubbing his scalp, and – he noticed with surprise – _he wasn’t wearing a glove_. His skin was burning hot and slightly damp. He had calloused fingertips and strong muscles in his palm. Steve leaned his forehead against James’ hip and let go of a shaky breath. _I am a mess._

“Don’t worry, Steve,” James whispered, and the melancholic resignation that dripped from his words broke Steve’s heart. “It always ends in a fight.”

And in that moment, the thundering sound of an explosion erupted somewhere nearby; the train shook on the rails. Steve turned towards the window, startled, temple brushing James’ belt, a questioning noise on his lips. James seemed unfazed by the sudden movement, but he took a step back, and suddenly, a breathless Natasha stormed in.

***

_A few minutes earlier…_

Steve’s attention to detail never ceased to amaze Natalia. She ran a finger along the edge of the red passport, smiling softly. The black engraving, the carefully smeared ink of the fake stamp, the photograph with a bent corner, even the watermark was exemplary. There was no anyone in the world could recognize it as a fake. Steve really was the best at what he did. She had seen the potential, all those years ago – and there weren’t even that many, the war just seemed so far away – looking at Steve’s schemes on the back of reports, glancing through his self-indulgent doodles on the corners of old enlistment forms… In another life, Natalia thought, in another time, in another place, maybe he would have been great.

She closed the passport and leaned against the windowsill. The Polish landscape whizzed past at a pleasant speed, tall trees and snow and high mountains. Natalia exhaled her cigarette smoke in a steady stream, admiring the deep gorge they were skirting along, the bottom of it covered in thick mist. The bridge they were about to cross was a stone one with tall arches and a strong structure, built to support the heavy bulk of the trains that ran over it every day. Natalia’s eyes flickered to the end of the corridor where the guard was starting to inspect the compartments to ask for identifications and visas. Time to go back inside.

She had just shaken the ashes from her cigarette holder and turned on her heels when she caught a blast of blue light in the corner of her eye and suddenly a roar shook the train to the core. People screamed and Natalia tumbled, grasping the handle of a compartment to stay upright. _What the hell…?_

When she managed to regain stability, she looked out of the window and felt the blood freeze in her veins. The bridge was collapsing, stones plummeting to the misty ground in a blaze of debris.

_Blyat’._

She ran.

She slammed the door of their compartment open and felt short-lived surprise at the sight of her companions’ position. Steve recoiled so violently at her entrance that he bumped the back of his head against the hard wood frame above the seats. He groaned, babbling her name and blushing violently. On the other hand, James stood completely still, his right hand paused in mid-air. There was a crease on his forehead but nothing more.

“The bridge exploded,” she announced, as though she was telling them luncheon was served in the restaurant car.

James seemed to consider her sentence, then proceeded to quickly fold the abandoned blanket on the seat and slip a book inside his peacoat together with his dog. “The train isn’t slowing down,” he pointed out at Steve’s still dumbfounded expression. “Something’s wrong.”

Natalia pushed back a pleased smile. “That is why we are going to check the locomotive. Steve,” she looked at him sternly. “You manage the people.”

Outside the carriage, one after the other, the passengers were realizing the same thing Natalia and James had: the bridge was dust and the train wasn’t slowing down. People started to scream and run out of their compartments. Steve finally snapped out of his reverie; he got up and peeked out, brows furrowed and jaw set. James was already almost on the other end of the carriage, cutting through the crowd swift and quiet like a ghost. Natalia hadn’t even noticed him slipping past her and out of the compartment.

“Do your Captain thing,” Natalia said, patting him on the cheek. “See you on the other side,” she called and opened the sliding door.

“Natasha,” Steve called, voice a key lower. “Be careful.” He hesitated. “Keep an eye on him, too.”

She winked. “Will do, lover boy.”

She didn’t have to stay and watch to know that Steve was blushing.

When Natalia reached the baggage car, avoiding a whole crowd of panicking people, James was already there, busy fumbling with the deadbolt on the other side. He didn’t acknowledge her presence but nodded towards the emergency brake wheel. It was broken. Natalia knew better than to ask if that was James’ doing. It was becoming clearer and clearer that he was not a drunken forgetful factory worker.

“Someone really wants us to end up at the bottom of the river,” she said light-heartedly, and when she turned back towards him, James had managed to crush the deadbolt. A screwdriver fell on the floor a second later, and James worked the door open.

They both looked up; the reddish color of the smoke coming from the tender didn’t look promising at all. Suddenly, she regretted leaving Steve behind. They were quite good at team missions, but she had no idea how James worked. Well, she would find out soon enough.

“Out of the way, Your Highness,” she said, matter-of-factly.

Finding out soon enough was one thing, but giving him the lead was out of the question.

James growled, grasping her arm. “You’re wearing a skirt,” he pointed out.

Natalia smiled, slipping out of his hold with a swift movement of her arm. “And you are wearing a peacoat. We can discuss our fashion choices later.”

She quickly climbed the ladder on the back of the tender and scurried quickly over the coals, taking care not to slip. _Next time, no fancy ankle boots, Natalia._ The steam coming out the chimney was still an unfriendly shade of red, not to mention the sparks.

_Something’s definitely not right._

James was following just a step behind her, his balance clearly not affected by the rolling of the train. When they reached the engine room, they exchanged a look, Natalia blinked in surprise when James walked past her and jumped on the roof of the cockpit, aiming for the driver. Well, that was definitely good chemistry.

Natalia jumped down on the other side and fell right in front of the furnace. A furnace that looked on the verge of exploding. The coal inside was dripping out of the opening, the fire burning like hell itself. She leaned in to have a good look at the pressure level, but when she did, she heard something cut the air and instinctively reacted, jumping on the side. The fireman’s shovel hit the valve, shattering the glass, and the steam powered whistle located at the top of the boiler started emitting a high-pitched sound.

Natalia turned towards the man, surprised, and a pair of glassy electric blue eyes looked back. It was like the unnatural blue had leaked into the pupil, covering it with a glaze.

“What the…?”

The fireman attacked again and Natalia blocked easily; there was no technique to his actions, only brute force. He wasn’t a big man, and when he tried to regain control of the shovel, she just slammed it against his face. The back of his head impacted with the hard metal of the cabin and he collapsed without a sound.

Natalia licked her lips and turned towards the firebox. Even without the valve working she could see that the pressure was too high. There was no way she was going to fix this. As she came to this realization, the grate succumbed to the pressure and spat a cascade of fiery debris. Natalia yelled and recoiled, diving to the side and grabbing one of the handles on the side of the car. She managed to avoid the embers and she heaved herself up, back on the tender.

She was just looking back to reassess the situation, when James’ flapping long hair appeared at the top of the cockpit. With a jump he was at her side on the pile of coal, Pooka a trembling bulge in his jacket. “Controls are smashed,” he said in a low tone, then visibly hesitated, as if he was deciding on keeping something from her.

“Let me guess, the driver was a weird guy with blue eyes?”

James nodded.

“Yeah, I thought so,” she exhaled, eyes pointed forward. The destroyed bridge loomed closer and closer and the railway was following the sloping of the mountain.

“There is no way to stop this thing the easy way,” James said, his voice strangely collected. “We have to find Steve and jump.”

Natalia looked on both sides of the train. They were travelling on an elevated railway, several feet above the snow-covered ground. If they jumped, they would for sure crash on the ground.

“After you,” Natalia commented, one brow raised.

James rolled his left shoulder, his right hand pressing against his deltoid, and straightened. “Let’s retrieve him,” he said, deadpan.

***

Steve Rogers had found himself in many difficult situations in his life. Once, he had had to infiltrate the _Obyedinonnyye organizatsii obsluzhivaniya_ , and ended up improvising a poorly executed pas-a-deux with a professional dancer in front of half the HYDRA army on a stage in Crimea. Another time, he had to hijack an ancient Albatros F.2 to prevent its HYDRA pilot from dropping two bombs on a border village that had been sheltering SHIELD forces. Oh, and that one time he single-handedly liberated two-hundred and fifty hostages from a HYDRA munitions factory where they were kept for manual labor – that time he got a promotion.

So, yeah, he’d found himself in a lot of difficult situations in his life, but he never, ever thought he would end up fighting three blue-eyed revenants armed with a silver tray and a carving fork on a restaurant carriage full of rich businessmen with their families hiding under tables.

He dodged a punch and kicked one of the revenant guards in the shin, making him tumble against a bar stool, and then raised his tray like a shield when a second one tried to slam a candelabra over his head. The metallic sound reverberated throughout the car, and the vibrations sent a pang of pain up his arm. Steve pushed hard with his makeshift shield and the man grunted, stumbling against a table and hitting his head on one of the pointy corners. He laid there motionless.

Steve didn’t have the time to catch his breath, because the third guard jumped him from behind, making him drop the tray. He blindly head-butted the guard, before he managed to turn and shove the carving fork into the man’s upper arm. He yelled and fell back against his companion, who shoved him to the side and paced menacingly towards Steve. He leaned forward, feet planted on the floor, fists raised, ready for an old-fashioned punch fest, when a crack sounded and an instant later the guard fell back, a perfect hole in the center of his forehead.

Steve blinked. A woman screamed.

Before Steve could fully process the situation, a strong hand grabbed his forearm and he turned. James stood in front of him, long, dangly locks twisting in the sudden wind. The window behind him was open, and he had clearly slipped inside from the roof. How…? Did he really walk on the top of a moving train? He was still holding the revolver he had used to shoot the man, and Pooka’s snout was peeking out from the collar of his peacoat.

“We have to go,” he said gruffly, not sparing a glance for the terrified passengers who were looking at them, wide-eyed, from under the tables.

“Where’s Natasha?” Steve asked.

“She’s taking the long way,” James said, seemingly unfazed. “Extraction necessary.” There was a robotic inflection in his voice, and his eyes were as grey as steel. “Come with me.”

Steve opened and closed his mouth, his eyes darting to the window. The train’s speed was clearly excessive; there were sparks flying, and the collapsed bridge was coming closer and closer. They had maybe five more minutes before plummeting to the bottom of the gorge.

“We have to stop the train,” Steve started.

James’ grip on his arm tightened. “Extraction. Now,” he repeated, now with more urgency.

“We can’t just leave them!” Steve whispered indignantly, gesturing with an arm. “There are two hundred people on this train.”

James cocked his head, confusion clear on his face. For the first time since he had entered the carriage, he looked around at the terrified expressions of the other passengers. He loosened his grip, and Steve felt the tingling sensation of the blood flow returning to his hand.

“ _Ne ikh vina_ ,” he murmured under his breath. “ _Nevinnyye_.”

“Yeah,” Steve nodded. Something inside him cracked when James raised his gaze – haunted, clouded – and their eyes met for a split second before James stepped back into action, walking towards the window and heaving himself up.

“Wait…!” Steve cried.

Natasha opened the door at that precise moment and Steve turned towards her, helpless.

“Well, he didn’t jump off the train with you in his arms. I guess that’s as good as it gets,” she commented, evaluating the situation with a quick glance. “You’ve been busy.”

There wasn’t even time to blush.

“We have to stop the train,” Steve said quickly, in English, under his breath.

“Yes, Rogers, good idea. I was taking a bath until now,” she shot back, eyebrows raised.

“He said– ”

“Yes,” Natasha cut him off. “Where are the other passengers?”

Steve ran a hand through his hair. “Last carriage,” he said. “Or at least I hope they stayed there. This is the last group.” he nodded towards the scared people who were starting to come out from under the tables.

Natasha nodded. “Alright, lead them there. I’ll find James and see what he’s planning.”

_Mental Implantation Procedure: three, two, one._

_Shoot that stupid mutt!_

Innocents.

_Wipe him and start over._

_But I didn’t do anything wrong._

They were innocents. _Nevinnyye._ They didn’t do anything wrong, they didn’t deserve to die. The wind blew through his hair. Pooka whimpered against his chest. They didn’t deserve to end up at the bottom of a gorge. _Nevinnyye_. What is ‘innocent’? What is ‘wrong’? The Asset– James lowered himself along the side of the cockpit. The driver was still there, skull smashed by his metal arm.

Go back, start again, hold that thought.

What is ‘wrong’?

  1. Zola wanting to shoot Pooka;
  2. Running on coal with a skirt and heeled boots;
  3. Jumping off the train alone;
  4. Jumping off the train only with Pooka, leaving Steve and Natalia behind;



and now, apparently,

5\. Leaving the people on the train behind.

Leaving _innocent_ people on the train. He started searching the cockpit.

Steam locomotive’s independent braking system: inoperative.

Air brakes: inoperative.

Consequently– He leaned out the side door of the cockpit, metal hand gripping the handle.

Yeah. Steam-powered compressors: inoperative.

This left…

The Asse– James closed all the buttons of his peacoat so that Pooka couldn’t peek out and leaned down, air punched out of his lungs by the speed of the train. He could see the axles running in slots in the frames, the wheels moving quickly, the pistons pushing. Sparks and red smoke enveloped the cab where the furnace had exploded. And then– the sandpipe. He followed it with watery eyes, dust and debris making him wish he had goggles.

He used to have them. Googles. Safety goggles. He had them on missions. On missions. They gave them to him. Handlers gave them to him. _Ya gotov otvechat._ Handlers he had killed. He blinked. No time. Hold that thought, though, please.

Go back, start again, hold that thought. _Ya gotov otvechat._

No, the other one. The sandpipe. Follow, no distractions.

The sandbox was mounted right beside the ashpan hopper. He had to find a way to unlock it from the outside so that sand would run through the pipe and in front of the wheels to slow down the train. He licked his lips, tasting the acrid taste of sulfur, and looked back inside the cockpit. The steam sanding valve had been pulled out and was busted, just like everything else. He needed to open the sandtrap manually, which was, _very conveniently_ – he thought sarcastically –, tucked beneath the engine car.

James wrenched a broken lever off and pressed the sides between his metal thumb and index finger to create a blunt extremity. Then he started edging his way out of the cockpit, lowering himself underneath the carriage. He suppressed a groan when his left shoulder brushed against a wheel, a gash opening where metal and skin met, sparks flying. The sandbox was vibrating with the speed of the train. James narrowed his eyes, his right hand gripping the side ladder of the locomotive. He bent the metal arm back to gain the most power possible and shoved the broken lever in the blockage of the sandtrap, wedging it in and pushing with all his might. The automatic blockage in the pipe gave way with a creaking sound, and sand started to pour down the pipe on both sides of the train, dropping on the tracks in front of the wheels.

 _Yes_.

Dust rose and James coughed, eyes closing reflexively. He blindly adjusted his grasp on the handle and began to hoist himself back onto the platform of the cockpit. God everything burned. His left hand slipped on the metal floor, and James lost his balance. He gasped, bracing for the impact of the rails, but suddenly someone grabbed him from the front of his peacoat. James managed to slam his metal hand against the ladder with a loud clanging sound, despite the glove, and then finally hauled himself fully into the cockpit. Natalia was in front of him.

“You are a reckless bastard,” she said, breathless. For the first time, James felt like he’d surprised her.

That didn’t seem to be an easy thing to do.

They looked at each other. The train was slowing down, clouds of sand dust blooming in its wake. James brought his right hand over the bulge in his jacket and relaxed when he felt the grounding heat of Pooka against his ribs and her soft trembling. “ _Ya proshu proshcheniya_ ,” he mumbled. “ _Vse khorosho_.”[3]

He glanced towards the speedometer. Seventy miles per hour.

“It’s not going to stop in time,” Natalia pointed out, red curls framing her beautiful features, green eyes fixed on the bridge.

They maybe had one minute left.

“Where’s Steve?”

“He’s gathering people in the last carriage,” she answered promptly.

James took a deep breath and unbuttoned his peacoat, taking out Pooka and placing her in Natalia’s arms. “Get to Steve. Keep them safe.”

“Wait! What are you…?” But he was already on the tender, running as fast as possible over the coal and then onto the roof, soles slipping on the wet surface. He had to get to the other end of the train in time.

Sixty-eight miles. Forty seconds.

He tumbled a little on the fourth leap. James gritted his teeth, his shoulder pulsing. He could see the end of the train.

Sixty-five miles. Thirty-five seconds.

He jumped down onto the rear observation platform, took off his tattered gloves, shoved them into his pocket, and grasped at the railing with his flesh hand. The ground was whizzing by his feet.

Sixty miles. Twenty seconds.

Now or never.

James jumped, still holding onto the railing with his right hand, and he barely winced when his left knee bumped against the soil at the side of the train. He flexed his metal arm and planted his fingers in the ground. The muscles in his flesh arm and back screamed in pain, tearing and ripping. The drag was unbearable – he could feel the dirt piling up behind his feet, gashes opening on the skin of his knee, and the unbearable pressure of hundreds of tons on his back. His flesh fingers were starting to slip on the railing.

Ten seconds.

_Nevinnyye._

_Pooka._

Eight.

_Nevinnyye._

_Natalia._

Six.

_Nevinnyye._

_Steve._

A single drop of sweat ran along his temple, and that unique testimony of humanity hit him like a brick wall. He screamed, eyes shut, every fiber of his body held taut in the effort of holding on.

Two.

The train stopped.

And James collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translate:**  
>  \- _Ya gotov otvechat’_ = Я готов отвечать - Ready to comply.  
> \- _Ne ikh vina_ = Не их вина - Not their fault.  
> \- _Obyedinonnyye organizatsii obsluzhivaniya_ = Объединенные организации обслуживания - United Service Organizations.  
> \- _Nevinnyye_ = Невинные - Innocents.  
> \- _Ya proshu proshcheniya_ = Я прошу прощения - I'm sorry.  
> \- _Vse khorosho_ = Все хорошо - Everything is okay.
> 
>  **Footnotes** :  
>  _Obyedinonnyye organizatsii obsluzhivaniya_ is merely the translation of 'USO'.
> 
> I promised a couple words about the Tesseract but actually I will wait for next chapter, because our kids will talk about it :p .
> 
> If you think, like my beta, that stopping a train is a bit too much even for someone with the serum... you are probably right. This notwithstanding, I promise I did a lot of research on the speed of trains at the beginning of the twentieth century and, comparing it to the scene in which Steve stops the helicopter, I deemed it acceptable. In any case I plead the IT'S MAGIC amendment.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where they get to Germany. And Steve and Bucky get close.

__

(Picture from [Canva](https://www.canva.com/media/MADAbj5wI3s))

*

 _Steve was leaning over him, a dimple on his left cheek, all sharp elbows, and bright blue eyes, and messy blond hair. They were both small, scrawny, and pale. They were children. Steve was giggling, and the sun was behind him, and he was telling him,_ I got you _. He wanted to say,_ I let you win _. He wanted to match that carefree smile._

He blinked.

 _Zola was leaning over a child. No, Zola was leaning over_ him _. He was small, young, a boy. A cruel smile was on Zola’s lips._ The procedure has already started _. He lowered his eyes and the horror – the horror. His left arm wasn’t there anymore. It was just a bloody stump and they were pressing a surgical saw against his skin._

He screamed.

 _A man was leaning over him, trying to overpower him, defending himself. A mission. His first mission._ Yakov. Yakov. What are you doing? _The Winter Soldier stabbed the brother of the Tsar right in the jugular, a waterfall of blood splashing on his face, chest, arms._

He coughed.

_A woman was leaning over him, her hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt. She had strawberry blond hair, and she was beautiful and half drunk and giggling, and she was wasting his time. The Asset’s mission was to seduce her to get to her father’s safe with acceptable collateral damage. Her big dark eyes widened in dismay when she spotted the scars on his left side, the metal edge of his arm. The Winter Soldier grabbed her by the neck and tightened his grip, and tightened, and tightened, and watched as the air left her lungs and the life left her big dark eyes._

He caught a breath and his own eyes widened.

He was lying in the snow on his back, and the woman above him had red hair, and green eyes, and was frowning.

_Natalia._

She was just observing him, inquisitive, sitting on her heels. James knew he was exposed, with his gloves still off; he could feel his metal hand pressing against his thigh, half squashed under his body, but– He didn’t dare move for the fear of attracting attention to it. Even if everything in him screamed to hide. He took a deep breath and tilted his head to the side, the wet coldness of the snow dampening his cheek. Natalia followed his movement, but she didn’t say a word.

James’ eyes searched around, assessing. He felt his body relax when he found Steve. He was kneeling in the snow, speaking softly to a child. The little girl was holding a ragged doll, eyes huge and full of tears, salty lines on her chubby cheeks. Steve raised a hand and pointed to a group of shaken-up looking people who were calling names loudly, not so far away. The girl nodded. An instant later Steve was on his feet, his right hand extended towards her. She slipped hers into his big palm, and he walked her to the group. A woman with long fair locks cried, “Ol’ga!” and the girl ran to her mother’s arms, both of them sobbing. Steve was smiling, reassuringly, and exchanged some words with two men while the girl and the woman hugged each other tightly.

_Ol’ga._

James squinted. There was something familiar in the name, but he couldn’t grasp…

But what was Steve doing? Why was he talking to the passengers? There were a lot of them, mostly huddled together, seeking company and… _comfort_. Steve was _comforting_ them. His whole persona shone among the scared people. He was like a beacon of light, an anchor. Everyone seemed to look up at him, as if he had all the answers. He was like a… handler? No, a _leader_. _Kapitàn_.

Would Steve comfort him if he were scared? Fear was not a familiar feeling for the Asset. The Winter Soldier knew no fear, no pain, no hesitation; just cold efficiency. But– but James had screamed in pain when the muscles of his back had torn and ripped, and every atom of his body had been aflame in the effort. The Winter Soldier would have not felt anything. If James could feel pain, was he able to feel fear? To feel the need to be comforted?

He exhaled and closed his eyes. Just for a second, just–

Fast steps on the snow. “Is he…” A breathless, “ _Yasha_ ,” and a heavy body fell in the snow beside him.

Their gazes locked. Steve was looking at him with such concern, hands stretched out, clearly unsure if he was allowed to touch him. To _comfort_ him, too. A pang ran through James’ brain and he shut his eyes. Oh God, would it always hurt so much to stare into those eyes?

“ _Stepanya._ ” His voice was hoarse. He turned on his left side, making sure to pull his left hand back inside his sleeve.

A much lighter weight jumped on his arm and Pooka licked happily at his face. “Hey you,” he mumbled, lifting his flesh hand to pet her, glad to have an excuse not to face Steve’s worried expression.

He cleared his throat and the girl called Ol’ga appeared in his mind with a different face. She had long, dark brown hair, and she wasn’t crying. He blinked and she disappeared. Steve had comforted those people, he had shown them compassion and care. They were important. Every single one of them was. He remembered Steve’s determined expression when he had told him _There are two hundred people on this train._ They were not just collateral damage. He took a deep breath. “Are the people…?”

Steve smiled.

“Yes,” he said, relieved. “Most of them are even unscathed.”

Good. Good. It was a good thing, right? Innocent people saved. They were not collateral damage. They had people who cared about them and who would have the same relieved expression Steve had in this moment when they found out their loved ones didn’t die.

“Good,” James said.

What is ‘good’?

  1. Pooka licking James’ face;
  2. Steve smiling;
  3. No eye-contact with Steve;
  4. James realizing people were important and not collateral damage;
  5. Said people ( _nevinnyye_ ) being _unscathed_.



He sat up and ran his right hand through his hair, slipping his left under his thigh and trying to assess the damage to his. His knees were bleeding, his trousers torn and ruined. His shoes were also mostly destroyed, and he could feel the muscles of his arm and shoulders knitting themselves back together. The peacoat was mostly whole, except for the slash on his back. He straightened up, hoping to hide the injury with the folds of the fabric.

“What happened?” James asked, slowly.

“Natasha told me you slowed the train down with sand. Ran on the roof to the back.”

James nodded, then noticed that they were expecting him to explain how he had actually stopped the train. He looked around and licked his lips. A mass of metal, probably some part of the coupling of the last carriage, was lying along the tracks. “Chain,” he said, hoarsely. “I used a chain. Hooked the train. Then I must have fallen.”

He could feel Natalia’s eyes on him. They hadn’t left him the whole time.

Steve brushed his arm with his knuckles. Shy. _Comforting_. James, he concluded, liked comfort. That was something new he liked, together with Pooka, meaningless names, and peacoats.

“Can you move?” Steve asked, softly, and James nodded curtly, carefully avoiding his eyes. “Good. We should collect some clothes,” he said, his voice lower now, all-business, “and reach the closest village to find transportation.” He looked over his shoulder.

James watched him. Steve didn’t want to leave the two hundred souls alone, but he couldn’t help it. The would be fine. They just had to follow the tracks back towards Sokovia and they would find help in the first village. It was probably what Steve had told those men, while mother and daughter were reunited. It pained him, though, not being able to lead them to safety. James could see it. _Kapitàn_.

In the corner of his eye, Natalia nodded, green eyes not leaving James, not even to blink. He turned his head and their gazes interlocked. James met her scrutiny with collected coolness. She didn’t smile.

“People have seen too much,” she said.

*

Не-время

Non-time

“You did a good job, Doctor Zola,” the Red Skull said, sunken eyes observing the three silhouettes making their way through the thick trees, avoiding the main road.

“Nothing would have worked if you didn’t expose the child to the Tesseract, sir,” Zola dissembled, his chubby fingers tangled together from nerves.

The Red Skull smirked cruelly, even if, after so many years and so many centuries of exile, he was starting to feel annoyance again. The Winter Soldier had gone rogue, but he remembered his training. It was almost a pity, to get rid of such a powerful weapon.

But he didn’t need it anymore. Not with the power the Tesseract chose to give him now. He didn’t need to transform inferior humans into perfect soldiers; he could control entire masses now.

The Winter Soldier walked in the snow, gloves covering his hands, a scarf wrapped around his face, unaware he was being watched. Always watched. He was Johann Schmidt’s very first creation, with a little help from the squirrelly man at his feet. He cocked his head. There was fondness in him, somewhere, a fondness for the child. They were the same, in a sense, father and son.

He needed to be Kronos, indeed, and destroy his own spawn.

The Red Skull had hoped, naïvely, that the years of brain meddling would have damaged him somehow, but his – now he could see it – sloppy attempt at getting rid of that rebellious child had been unsuccessful. He clearly hadn’t put in enough effort. Violence was fallacious. There was no rush, anyway, he had time. Fate was helping him too, he thought, looking at the golden hair of the good _Kapitàn_ with an indulgent smile.

There were subtler means to strip the Winter Soldier of his everything. How would Steve Rogers react when he found out that the brooding man he had saved was HYDRA's most lethal weapon? What would he do when he found out he was the same man who once almost managed to kill him? What was the unusually protective Black Widow going to do when she connected all the dots?

The Red Skull caressed the wavy edge of the portal, its blue flames curling affectionately around his skeletal fingers. Maybe he didn’t have to act at all. Maybe he had been subconsciously far-sighted, all those years ago, when he had created a weapon destined to self-destruct.

*

Где-то в Восточной Польше – Ноябрь 1930 г.

Somewhere in Eastern Poland – November 1930

They were walking along a snowy path somewhere in Eastern Poland from what a not really friendly peasant had told them a couple of miles back, and if they kept on that road, they would arrive at an actual village with an actual coach service and/or rental cars.

“Are we ever going to address the blue-eyed fellas I speared with a carving fork?” Steve asked at some point, hands deep in his pockets and two thin lines marking the space between his brows.

He was trying not to think. He was actively trying not to face the whirlwind of emotions that kept rushing through him this past handful of days. He had heard James muttering to his dog, _It has been a bunch of strange days, Pooka_ , while keeping watch the previous night, perched on the sturdy branch of a pine tree while Steve and Natasha tried to rest for a couple hours. Boy, wasn’t he right.

Steve was compartmentalizing. Or boxing up things. Same thing. He had to. He had to or he’d have a mental breakdown, and he couldn’t have a mental breakdown in the middle of the Polish forest. So yeah, compartmentalization. They had to keep going on their journey. To do that, they had to change their identities again – hair, clothes, make up if possible. Plus they had to figure out if someone was actively trying to kill them or if the train mess was just bad luck.

“I melted a blue-eyed guy and Yasha crushed and shot two, so you are not special,” Natasha smirked, winking at James. “Sorry boys, but melting trumps spearing, crushing, and shooting.”

Steve glared at her, still in a bad mood. “I’m just saying, it was anything but an accident. The sabotaged coal car, the glazy blue eyes, the exploded bridge…”

James was looking at the ground intently, hands shoved in his pockets, dog perched on his shoulder like an exotic bird. He seemed unfazed by the whole situation. Steve was trying not to stare too much, trying not to think about him, what he had done on the train right before– No. Stop. Compartmentalize. Blue-eyed goons. Terrorists or hit men?

“The flames on the bridge were blue,” Natasha said, and James lost his footing, just for a second.

Steve stopped. “Are you saying…?”

Natasha glanced at him over her shoulder, but kept walking. “Clearly HYDRA doesn’t want us to leave the country.” She sounded almost defiant, as if testing Steve for his reaction.

Steve’s breath caught and he looked at James’ hunched back, his head sunk between his shoulders and the dog chewing on a lock of hair. He thought about James’ fingertips brushing against his scalp, his cold eyes when he had shot that guard in the head, his confused expression when Steve had told him they had to save the passengers, the way he said _They are innocents_ , his voice almost breaking. The way he had lain in the snow, cuts and dirt on his face, after he saved them all.

Steve didn’t know who he was or why he looked so much like _his_ James, his Yasha, his Bucky. He didn’t know if he was lying about not remembering or if he regretted fighting for HYDRA – if he had ever believed in what HYDRA stood for. He didn’t _know_. But– James came back for _him_. _He didn’t jump off the train with you in his arms, I guess that’s as good as it gets_ , Natasha had said. Steve knew that if he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, he would find the bruises James’ hand had left when he’d grabbed him to get him to safety. So no, Steve didn’t know shit. But he _felt_. And what he did feel was that, whoever he was, James was a good man.

“I saw those flames before, during the war,” Steve said, opting for his Captain voice; lower and serious and definitely military mode. “HYDRA tech. They are the only ones with that kind of claptrap.”

Natasha nodded. “Do you think the blue eyes are related to that?” she asked.

“The guards looked… controlled, like puppets,” Steve went on, and James slowed down.

Steve looked at him furtively. His eyebrows were furrowed, and it was clear he was considering what Steve had just said.

“Mind control, Rogers, seriously?”

Natasha sounded quite skeptical.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “They do have technology SHIELD could only dream of.” He paused. James was still brooding. “You don’t remember any weird side project from your sweet time there?” he teased Natasha.

“They have _side projects_ like that,” James said quietly before Natasha could retort with some snappy comment.

Steve stopped, but James walked a few feet more before turning and glancing at him and away again. He seemed suddenly insecure, almost guiltily so, like he wasn’t comfortable in sharing that kind of intel with them. Well, screw that, Steve decided he trusted him enough to talk in front of him about his suspicions, so James might as well do his side of sharing.

“Speak up,” Steve said, flatly.

Funnily enough, James’ eyes darted towards Natasha, then his shoulders fell and he lowered his gaze. “HYDRA can make people do things,” he said, looking dazed, as if he was figuring it out at that precise moment. “They have… procedures,” he added, and his dark blue eyes went distant, almost glassy. “ _Krespo_ , _kódy_ ,” he frowned. “ _Pytki_.”

An icy shiver ran down Steve’s spine and it wasn’t because of the snow drenching his clothes.

“Do these procedures make the subjects’ eyes like that?” Natasha’s question cut the air like a sharp blade.

Steve looked at her, lips pressed in a line. Natasha could be stone cold when she wanted; her chin was raised in an expression of blank efficiency. He’d met that version of Natalia many times before finding his Natasha underneath.

When James looked away from the frozen ground, his expression was blank again. “What color are my eyes?” he asked.

Steve was shit at compartmentalizing.

He was sitting on a fallen trunk, head in hands, taking deep breaths to fight off an asthma attack. He really didn’t need another crisis, not now. His mind and body could only take a reasonable amount before shutting down, and he was pretty sure he’d had his share for the week. And it was just Thursday.

He breathed in, then breathed out. He really needed his cigarettes. The craving for the menthol was unbearable, and he felt like he couldn’t get enough air. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw James’ expressionless eyes, his thin lips asking them plainly what color they were. Another face – or the same – took its place; so similar, but younger, fresher, without the long, soggy locks framing a strong, adult jaw; without those sharp cheekbones; without the stubble on rounder cheeks. The Bucky in his mind kept asking that same question in monotone.

 _What have they done to you?_ Steve wanted to ask Bucky, and he wanted to ask James. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that there was a chance – there was a slim chance he’d only need to ask the question once. In both cases, he feared the answer.

He had never felt so lost in his life.

Not when he was dragged by his hair out of the Winter Palace screaming and kicking; not when he was thrown in a cell and named a traitor for the first time at twelve years old; not when the guard had taken pity and cast him out without an explanation; not when he had been found, starving and freezing in the snow, by Dum Dum Duganov, former leader of what would become the Howling Commandos; not when he was given a whole unit to command at just twenty-one; not when he laid in the snow, blood spilling in earnest from too many bullet wounds; not when they lost the war and in the process he lost all his friends. Not even when his mother died of consumption did he feel so lost.

He had seen horrors, and the war, yet he had never felt so completely powerless. He had no idea what they were doing, or why they were doing it, and he was just… he was so much in the weeds that he had no idea how to get out. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. What did he have, apart from Natasha? What did he have apart from her crazy plan?

He opened his eyes and stared at what was in front of him: James was sitting in the snow, legs crossed, apparently unbothered by the cold or the way his ruined trousers were getting drenched. His cheeks were two red apples, and he kept throwing a twig at Pooka who joyfully fetched it, to bring it back to her owner, tail wagging happily. James’ lips curled in fondness and amazement every time, eyes crinkling at the edges, forehead free of its usual furrow. Steve looked at this unguarded version of James and felt something warm and fuzzy take root.

It was like looking in a weirdly shaped mirror, a mirror that showed the present and the past at the same time. Steve was looking at James playing with Pooka– but he was also looking at Bucky playing with Joy during one of his recovery days when he could sit outside under a tree, a blanket on his knees while his sisters played hide and seek among masterfully carved statues and tall hedges, long white dresses puffing in the summer breeze.

“We are less than two miles from Kępice.” Natasha appeared as if from thin air and Steve started.

James didn’t move, but stopped playing fetch and let out a low whistle. Pooka ran into his arms and wiggled her way inside his ragged peacoat.

“There is a farm in the south-east corner of the city. We can rest there for tonight, then take a coach to Dresden tomorrow. I can send a telegram to Nick there.”

Steve raised his eyes. “Nick?”

Natasha nodded absent-mindedly, picking up their scant possessions.

“My contact in Paris,” she said. “He is the Dowager Empress’ bodyguard.”

Steve’s jaw fell. “You… you know the Dowager Empress’ _bodyguard_?”

Natasha looked at him like he was an idiot. “Of course I do. Do you think I would have jumped into this without the right resources?” She scoffed.

“Why do we have to contact the bodyguard?”

It was the first time James had asked a question regarding the plan. He just nodded or ignored them when they bickered about it, and he agreed to everything Natasha decided.

“Nobody gets near the Dowager Empress without Nick Fury’s permission,” Natasha said, head tilted to the side.

James blinked and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Pooka licked his cheek, probably feeling his discomfort. “Do I have to prove I am the tsarevich?” he asked, almost disbelieving. It was more emotion than Steve had ever heard in his voice.

“Look, I– ”

“Show up. Yes. Look nice. Fine. Fit in a couple lies. Can do. But– _p_ _rove_ it?” He sounded genuinely distressed. Steve made a move towards him, but James took a step back, arms around his middle. “I’m… I’m not him,” he said with such vulnerability Steve felt his heart hurt. “I can’t prove I’m him.”

“You don’t know you are not him,” Steve heard himself say. “What if it’s true?” His heart was pounding in his chest.

_They have found only five bodies._

James looked at him with eyes full of fear. It was the same exact expression Steve had seen in Bucky’s eyes right before he pushed him inside the secret passage that night of so many years before. The last expression he had seen on his best friend’s face.

“It’s one more stop on the road to finding out who you are.”

And God, he felt selfish. That was something _Steve_ wanted. Only Steve. James had never expressed that wish. Steve wanted to know if he had spent his whole life believing Bucky was dead when he had been right there, when he had been with HYDRA, brainwashed and tortured and who knows what else. Steve wanted to know if he had abandoned him when Bucky needed him the most.

“I know who I am,” James answered, and his voice broke. He looked trapped.

“No, you don’t,” Steve said softly, and when he stepped forward, James didn’t move. He just looked at him, pained.

_He has the same eyes, the same pout._

Steve raised a hand and reached to put it on James’ left shoulder. That seemed to shake James from his daze and he turned his back to him, walking away.

_He’s dead._

“ _Stepanya_ – ” Natasha said.

Steve shook his head. “Don’t,” he choked out without looking at Natasha. “Eyes on the prize. Let’s go.”

And they walked.

***

They ended up in the back of a truck, squashed among small bales, bags of rice, and two goats, who almost immediately started to munch on the corner of the duffel bag that contained all Steve could collect from the train wreck. The road was bumpy, but they were so exhausted, Steve almost immediately collapsed against one of the sacks. Right after he fell asleep, James had recovered the army blanket from the duffel bag without a word, and he tucked Steve in as tightly as possible. Natalia observed him with a twinkle in her eye. Afterwards, he and Pooka began watching the goats with identical fascination, noses wrinkled and heads tilted to one side.

“Yasha,” Natalia called softly when he finally started poking one of the goats' horns, receiving a loud _baa_ in response. James winced, startled, and Steve stirred, but didn’t wake up.

With a pout, James turned towards Natalia, looking profoundly disappointed in the goat.

Natalia stared at him: the slight frown of his eyebrows, his big expressive eyes, his hands, always covered by stained woolen gloves. She knew something was off about him. He was a soldier, yes; he had certainly worked for HYDRA and he was terribly skilled. Natalia had never seen anyone so efficient, so driven, so powerful. And she fought with Steve for months during the war. But _this man_.

This man was something else. A _machine_. He had stopped the train. It shouldn’t have been possible, but he did it. A chain, he said, _I hooked the train_. But they would have felt the sudden pull if he’d done that; the car, hell, the whole train, should have separated from the wheel-base, turning sideways on the tracks, to plow through the snow. But that hadn’t happened. The train had… slowed down, just in time. There was something she wasn’t getting.

“I don’t know who you are,” she said slowly, and James’ expression didn’t falter. “And I don’t know if you know or if you want to find out.” He kept staring at her. “I don’t even know if you should want to find out.” At this, he swallowed. Interesting. “But if you’re still on board, I can help you prove you are the Tsarevich.”

James let out a deep sigh, and a distant expression colored his delicate features. He seemed, in that moment, immensely old. “I’m still on board,” he said, heavily. “And I don’t really care if I am him,” he shrugged. “I don’t get why Steve is so obsessed with it.”

 _Yeah_. Natalia thought, throwing a quick glance at the sleeping man. _Me neither. That’s another thing I have to figure out._

“I just want…” He paused, eyes widening. He seemed to be realizing something and he cleared his throat. “I just want to start over. As anybody.”

Natalia nodded, then thought about the way Steve had leaned against James with careless abandon, on the train. “About Steve– ”

Unexpectedly, James chuckled.

“What?”

“He is something else, isn’t he?” James said with unusual fondness, his crinkled eyes very blue and bright in the afternoon light.

Natalia cocked her head, remembering on what she had walked in on, back when she’d stormed into the compartment. “Yes,” she nodded. “He trusts a lot. Even when he doesn’t want to.”

They looked at each other and James’ smile curved sadly. They understood one another. Despite the secrets, despite the huge void of unknown between them, Natalia felt a strange kinship with him.

“Get some sleep,” she finally said, and James nodded before curling against one of the goats like he’d always gone to sleep in exactly this way. He whistled, and Pooka stopped sniffing the side of one of the boxes and snuggled between him and the goat. James sighed, content, and closed his eyes.

Natalia’s gaze ran between the sleeping men. She remembered telling Steve that she knew things, once upon a time. She remembered reading his file, observing him, getting intel on him. And yet, there had never been anything on the Imperial Family there. Steve was just a peasant, raised by a sick mother and a group of scruffy soldiers. What did she miss? What did HYDRA miss?

She thought about the attempted assassination. Maybe HYDRA hadn’t missed anything. Maybe SHIELD had. What had he hidden from her for so many years; what connected him to the tsars? She smiled bitterly to herself. She had always believed men were easy to read, open books of instincts and stupidity. But now she had two men with her who were both a mystery. And one of them was Steve, who she thought she knew like the back of her hand.

God, she got _lazy_ in her old age.

Well. It was time to call up an old friend.

_I know you. Black Widow._

*

5-го ноября́ 1930 г. 

November 5th, 1930

The van left them in the outskirts of Dresden, near the zoo. It was a very peaceful area, not too crowded. They jumped down, thanked the driver, and let Natalia drag them inside a _Kneipe_ that had seen better times. She quickly talked to the bulky man at the counter and came back with three beers masterfully balanced on a tray, together with three battered German passports and some glue (“Work your magic, Captain”). Before they knew it, they had their documents. Stefan Rosenberg was Alma Rothbauer’s fiancé, Jakob Bayer was her half-brother and chaperone, and they were sitting in a small but comfortable room in an inn downtown.

They slept, and ate a simple dinner, and slept some more.

James wasn’t used to all this sleeping.

James wasn’t used to all this thinking.

He stayed up, listening to Steve’s labored breathing coming from the other bed in the small, cozy room. It’d gotten worse since Polan; the dust and the smoke from the train straining his weak lungs. James stayed up thinking about the dead boy he was to impersonate. He stayed up and realized that Steve’s words – Steve’s desperate, selfish words – were pounding against his temples.

_I know who I am._

_No, you don’t_.

The Asset. The Winter Soldier. The Fist of HYDRA. The _Soldat_. Someone who had choked a girl to death with a metal hand. Yasha. Pooka’s caretaker. James Barnes. Jakob Bayer. Natalia and Steve’s travel companion. Someone who didn’t abandon innocent people on a train that was going to plummet to the bottom of a gorge.

_I know who I am._

_No, you don’t._

He stayed up and memories started crawling out of the darkness of his mind slowly, painfully, making his head hurt and small lights pop behind his eyelids. _U menya yest' dlya tebya missiya_. _Ya gotov otvechat'_.

> WINTER SOLDIER–
> 
> MISSION REPORT

Why now? Why not before? _It’s the stasis. It’s the apparent calm_.

_I know who I am._

_No, you don’t._

He knew who he had been. The Asset. The Winter Soldier. The Fist of HYDRA. The _Soldat_. He just–

“I don’t really want to be that anymore,” he whispered against Pooka’s fur. It made his nose tingle, but he didn’t want to push her off his chest. He liked the weight of her small body against his sternum. He liked to listen to her little heart beating fast. _I rescued her. This was my first good thing_.

 _I stopped being_ that _– the Asset, the Winter Soldier, the Fist of HYDRA, the_ Soldat _– because of her._ He had stopped the moment when something in his mind clicked when he saw Pooka. When he recognized her as an innocent creature. _Nevinnyy_. When he grasped what innocence meant. _Lack of guile or corruption_. It was something he wasn’t. Or maybe he was. Or had been. A long time ago. _Ya ne khochu. Pozhaluysta. Ya ne sdelai nichego plokhogo._

The face of the choking woman came back into his mind, then it morphed into Natalia’s round features, before the shape of her cheekbones changed and she became the little girl in his memories, dreams, imagination. But his damaged brain twisted the face again and it became Ol’ga’s, the child from the train, then it shifted into the features of the dark haired young woman who had peeked into his mind just once, the one with the same name – Ol’ga, Ol’ga. The Winter Soldier’s metal hand choked them all.

Eto vse moya vina, said a whining voice in the back of his head. _But I didn’t want any of this._ And he was back in his white room in the facility, and Zola was looking at him with disdain because he had malfunctioned, and the other man praised him but then–

_I want to be good. I don’t want to malfunction. I want to be praised._

But praise came from killing. Choking that girl, slitting the throat of that man, shooting the target in the head, burning the body, the house, the family. The screams.

The screams.

Praise came from the screams.

Such a good boy.

Such a beautiful boy.

The Fist of HYDRA. The metal hand crushing bones, snapping necks, pulling the trigger at men, women, children. Target eliminated with prejudice. Target eliminated, along with acceptable collateral damage.

They screamed and screamed and screamed and they begged. Oh, the begging was the worst part. It tickled something in the back of the Soldier’s head. Pleading in every language known to man. _Pozhaluysta_. _Please_. They were screaming his–

He was screaming.

Or someone–

There was a boy, a blond boy. He screamed too.

A name. The boy was screaming a name.

_Bucky!_

_Oh my God, oh my God, Bucky?! Bucky, where are you?!_

_Buckybuckybuckybuckybucky._

_WhydoesthekitchenboycallyouBucky?_

Wake up.

Wake up!

Bu–

“–ke up!”

James gasped, air flowing into his lungs, head spinning. Oh God. He couldn’t see, black spots were clouding his vision. His cheeks were wet.

“Yasha. Yasha. Hey. Are you with me? Are you– ”

He snapped his head towards the voice and _Steve_ was there, beside him, kneeling on the floor between their beds, eyes huge and worried – even more worried than he’d been in the snow, on the verge of that abyss.

“Steve,” he croaked.

Steve’s hand was cupping his jaw, his thumb brushing his cheekbone, taking away the wetness. He was saying something, something soothing, something comforting. James’ cheeks were _wet_. Was he– Was he crying? He blinked, and suddenly a man in a uniform was holding his head in the same way and then he slapped him with the back of his hand – he gripped James’ chin, leaving bruises, forcing his mouth open. James recoiled, the back of his head bumping against the wall – sharp, sharp pain –, back pressed into the corner, breathing furiously. He didn’t dare blink again. The man on the other side of the bed was still Steve – not a handler, not the man in the suit, the man in the uniform. Steve’s hands were raised to show he meant no harm, and his handsome features were scrunched up in concern.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he said, flustered. “You were having a nightmare and…”

When he felt his eyes welling with more tears, James allowed himself to blink again, once. Steve was still there, arms still raised.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he heard himself say with a calm he didn’t feel. The calm of the Soldier. His heart was still hammering in his chest, his cheeks still streaked with salt. He was crying. He had cried. He didn’t remember ever crying in his life. His life as the Asset, but there was a life before–

Steve seemed lost for an instant, then he came back to himself and realized what James had said. “It’s no… it’s no bother. Really. I… How do you feel?” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, as if making to sit on the edge of the bed.

James made himself smaller in the corner. It was so familiar. Pushing himself into a corner. Making himself small. A flash of hurt went through Steve’s blue eyes. He recognized James’ wariness, his panic, and he immediately stilled, settling back on his heels. “It’s alright, pal,” he whispered. “No touching. I get it.”

_Pal._

James nodded and gulped, and they stayed like that for a while, Steve kneeling on the hardwood, James huddled up in the corner, until Pooka snuck out of her hiding spot under the armchair in the corner, hopped on James’ bed, tail wiggling, and bumped her nose against his calf. James reached out and scratched her with a trembling hand. _Gde ty byl, devochka?_ _Did I scare you?_

“I have nightmares too,” Steve confessed, after a while, his features shrouded in darkness. “About war.” He lowered his gaze to his hands, palms up on his knees. James could see him and not see him at the same time. “About– ” His voice faltered. “About this one time in which I should have– I was supposed to– ”

“You don’t have to tell me,” James interrupted. He felt it was the right thing to say, but Steve bit his lip and lowered his gaze, and his shoulders slumped down. Maybe not…?

It was strange, just breathing with Steve, in the darkness of their room in this new city, in this new country, in this new life. _The Asset. Yasha. James Barnes. Jakob Bayer_. _The Man in the Palace. Stepanya Rodzhers. Steve Rogers. Roger Stevens. Stefan Rosenberg._ A part of him wanted to know– He wanted to know because he wanted to make it right for Steve. He wanted to know because he… because he _cared_ about Steve.

Air stuck in his throat at the realization. James _wanted_ to _keep him safe_. Just the fact that he could _want_ something now… that wasn’t allowed in the facility. But now he could. Shivers ran down his spine. He could _care_. He could _want_. And he wanted to alleviate Steve’s suffering. He didn’t want him to have nightmares; he didn’t want him to feel as bad as he had felt, as he was still feeling.

“You don’t have to tell me,” James repeated, but this time it felt more like him, more like James, more like this person who wanted Steve to be okay. His voice quivered and it wasn’t calm; it was rough and insecure and it mirrored his feelings much more than the previous one did. He could _feel_. He didn’t have to suppress feelings. “But I, ah, but if you want to tell me– ”

If you _want_.

 _I can do things because I_ want _now. You should do things because you_ want _to, too._

It was strange how night-time prompted confessions. Maybe it was the cover of the darkness, something in the way the other could not see your face, couldn’t dwell on your reaction, couldn’t face what they were whispering. That night, not even the moon helped one see beyond vague shapes. It was just a thin wedge in the black sky.

But James could feel Steve’s eyes on him, could reconstruct his silhouette, could hear the almost imperceptible wheezing of his weak lungs.

“When I was a child I had this friend,” Steve started, and his words were in Sokovian. His voice kept breaking on the consonants, and James knew that if he gathered the courage to touch him like he had before, if he took off the glove and brushed his thumb along Steve’s cheekbone, he would feel the same wetness Steve had tried to ry from his own.

“He was my best friend in the world, and we weren’t even supposed to be friends. He, uh, he was, how can I put this? He was gold where I was copper.”

James frowned, thinking about the aura of safety and self-confidence Steve had projected after the train wreck, how everyone seemed to trust him blindly, to gather in his orbit. Copper? That didn’t sound right. Steve was the most _golden_ thing James had ever seen, if that made sense. Not much made sense in his mind.

“One night I– ” Steve paused, taking a deep breath and started again, angrier, more bitter. “Every time I got in over my head, he always waded in and pulled me out. And the one time he needed me to return the favor, I couldn’t.”

James tilted his head, leaning his temple against the wall, and didn’t say anything. He lingered, though, on the soft melancholic way Steve pronounced the word _friend_ , the way his tongue had rolled around the following pronouns, as if he was trying to caress the memory with his words.

“Friend,” he murmured, trying for the same softness, the same care in articulating the noun, like it was something precious, something to treasure.

“I wasn’t a very good one,” Steve choked.

James nibbled at his lower lip, then looked at Pooka, clicked his tongue, and patted her on the butt. _Comfort,_ he thought. As if reading his mind, Pooka scampered to Steve and wiggled her way onto his lap. He made a surprised sound that soon transformed into a pleased one, if a bit watery. James’ lips curved upwards.

“You dream about your friend?” he asked.

Steve sighed, deeply, from his heart. “Yeah,” he breathed out.

“You hurt him in your dreams?”

Steve winced. “What? No, I… I just… I cannot… I fail to save him, every time.”

James hummed. “Then you are better than me,” he confessed, darkly, thinking about the dream where he shot Steve in the snow and Steve bled out, horror painted on his face.

Was Steve his friend?

He seemed to kill a lot of people in his dreams.

He seemed to kill a lot of people in his memories.

He shuddered.

“I failed to save him in reality too,” Steve added under his breath after a moment, oblivious of James’ internal struggle.

James thought about that sentence for some time. He thought about Steve and his friend and the way in which he had tried to save him but failed. He wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault and he wanted to tell him he dreamt about taking the life of every single person who moved in the back of his damaged mind. He wanted to tell him he had never rescued anyone – well, except the dog – before the train wreck. That he hadn’t even wanted to, before.

Before Pooka, before Steve and Natalia. He wanted to tell him he had choked the girl with the strawberry blond hair, that he had slashed the throat of the man calling that name – his name? _Yakov_ , _Yakov_ ; that he had shot men in fancy uniforms right in the head, and he had burnt down military bases and houses full of women and children. He wanted to tell him that he didn’t know what was true in his mind.

He just–

_If I open my mouth the horrors will never stop. The screams. They are all here. I did all that._

He wanted to tell Steve he was just starting to grasp concepts. Somewhere in his mind he knew what they meant, it was just hard to unlock the drawers where the information was stored.

Right. Wrong. Good. Bad. Like. Dislike. Care. Comfort. Friend.

“He was your friend, wasn’t he?” James finally murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Friends don’t hold grudges.”

Someone had told him so, a long time ago, in a chirpy voice.

Steve gave a mirthless laugh. “Even if you get them killed?”

James thought about it, gears moving in his head. Friends are supposed to accept you. One hundred percent. Good and bad. Achievements and failures. “Are you my friend?” he asked, and his heart started beating faster. He was afraid of what Steve would say.

Steve seemed taken aback by the question, but when he answered, the syllable slipped out of his mouth with an ease that surprised them both. “Yes.”

Something exploded in the back of James’ mind. A memory or a munition factory. He couldn’t be sure.

James hummed, then decided to take a leap of faith. “I killed you in a dream.”

“Oh.”

“Are you holding it against me?”

“I, uh, guess not?”

James hummed again. “Then yes, even if you get them killed,” he decided. “No grudges.”

Steve didn’t object. He didn’t say a thing. Of course, there were a thousand possible rebuttals even James, with his damaged mind, could think of. _A dream is not reality_ was the first one that came to him, but he was grateful for Steve’s silence. In James’ case, he wasn’t quite sure what was real and what was not. Steve was there and he was alive, so, clearly, he didn’t bleed out on the side of some mountain but– well.

James scratched his cheek; he could still feel the salty traces of his tears. But there was also something else, a warm feeling on his skin, a pleasurable clenching in his chest.

_Are you my friend?_

_Yes._

His heartbeat slowed down, following the rhythm of Steve’s slightly wheezy breathing.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep, right there, in the corner, against the wall. He dreamt of girls laughing, of playing with a dog who wasn’t Pooka, chasing a tabby cat and, jeez, even riding a pony. And he dreamt of a boy. The boy was small and ticklish and vicious in his brawling. He was grumpy a lot. When James woke up, though, he couldn’t remember his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  \- _Krespo_ = кресло - chair.  
> \- _Kody_ = коды - codes.  
> \- _Pytki_ = Пытки - Torture.  
> \- _U menya yest' dlya tebya missiya_ = У меня есть для тебя миссия - I have a mission for you.  
> \- _Ya gotov otvechat'_ = Я готов отвечать - Ready to comply.  
> \- _Nevinnyy_ = Невинный - Innocent.  
> \- _Ya ne khochu. Pozhaluysta. Ya ne sdelai nichego plokhogo._ = Я не хочу. Пожалуйста. Я не сделал ничего плохого - I don't want to. Please. I didn't do anything wrong.  
> \- _Eto vse moya vina_ = Это все моя - It's all my fault.  
> \- _Gde ty byl, devochka?_ = Где ты был, девочка? - Where were you, girl?
> 
>  **Footnotes:**  
>  So, the Tesseract. As you may have inferred from the story itself, the Tesseract here is not merely the (container of) the Space Stone. Basically it's a magic cube that does a lot of stuff like mind controlling people (like Loki's staff, container of the Mind Stone). So basically I will say, once again: IT'S MAGIC.
> 
> In this chapter finally Steve and Bucky start to open up to each other. <3 I am so happy that you all are reading this and commenting and leaving kudos. Thank you so much, you make my day, honest. <3 I want to say thank you again to my betas, because I just thanked them in the first chapter and it doesn't seem enough. Every time that I publish a new chapter (and hence go back checking their corrections and preparing the chapters for publication) I realize how much better they made this thing. So thank you, Brie and Lillaby <3 I owe you big time.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Steve and Bucky share a cigarette. And memories come back. Natasha realizes something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite scene is coming.

(Picture from [Canva](https://www.canva.com/media/MADesKpMChk))

*

6-го ноября́ 1930 г. 

November 6th, 1930

“You were born in a palace by the sea.” Natasha threw a slim red booklet in James’ lap. It was open on a map that showed the blueprint of a huge royal palace. In the top right corner, a name was written in bold block letters: Peterhof.

James closed the pamphlet, keeping his gloved index finger inside to mark the page. On the cover, in golden letters, was written: _Sokovia: handbuch für Reisende_. James blinked and started going through the pages with a frown. Peterhof. It didn’t ring any bells. Not that it should. He reached the map again and nodded slowly, before having a look at the previous page. There was a short description for the benefit of tourists, and two small photographs. One depicted a beautiful palace, not so different from the one in Novi Grad judging from the architecture, and the other showed its marvelous water features.

He looked up at Natasha, who was leaning against a pile of books, her red hair braided in a crown as was typical of the southern regions of Germany. Her German accent, James had noticed when she was sweet-talking the librarian, all big eyes and fluttering eyelashes, reminded him of Bavaria. They were sitting in a secluded area of the library, inside what had once been a smoking room. It was a beautiful space decorated with wooden panels and fake windows, the arches all soft curves and smooth edges like a woman’s body. They were sitting on comfortable cushions, socked feet brushing the precious carpet. It was a restricted section of the library, but Natalia’s big green eyes had worked their magic with the staff.

“Where’s Steve?” James asked absentmindedly, and Natalia scoffed.

“Sooner or later I’ll start thinking you like him better than me,” she said, teasingly.

James– James _blushed_. He felt warmth running through his neck, right to his cheekbones, and his mouth formed a perfect “o”. Natalia snickered, eyebrows lifting in mock surprise, and opened the first big book on her pile, legs folded on the cushions in an elegant fashion, the heavy forest green of her skirt covering her calves. She looked for a page, and when she found it, she pushed the volume towards him. It smelled of dust and old paper. It was almost relaxing. There was a bigger photograph of the Peterhof Palace, taken from its gardens.

“I forced him to stay in bed,” she said. “He wasn’t feeling well. The city smog does some mumbo-jumbo to his lungs. Pooka’s watching over him, remember?”

 _Messes up,_ James automatically translated in his mind. Sometimes Natalia used strange expressions. He wondered if she was trying to trigger something in his head with unusual words. _Messes his lungs._ Steve’s lungs weren’t the best, nor was his heart. When he was around, James could hear even the softest wheezing, he could hear the irregular beating inside of Steve’s massive chest. The accident with the train and the aftermath of it; the snow, the cold nights out in the open, the trip on the van with the goats and the hay must have made it worse.

Natalia tapped the photo. “Focus, _solnyshko_.”

James nodded and took everything in. The photographs of the palace, the descriptions – it looked like an art book – the comments of the author.

“A palace by the sea,” he murmured, brushing the tip of his index finger on the edge of the tourist map. “Could it be?”

His eyelids suddenly felt heavy. He remembered the _smell_ of the sea; the salty, sharp, cold sensation on his skin, the way the waves curled white on the shore. He remembered small feet leaving prints in the muddy sand, prints that immediately disappeared. He remembered little girls shrieking like seagulls.

Natalia started talking to him about the Peterhof, quick and precise, straightforward. _Just store all this intel, Soldat, you’ll make it pretty later._ Then, she took a stack of letters from the side of her corset. They were bound together by a red ribbon. James wondered where they had came from; they weren’t library material. He thought about German passports on a tray. Neither of them said a word about them. James read the letters that Natalia gave to him one by one. They were written by courtiers and members of the extended family of the Tsar – and from the descriptions and the books, it was like the palace on the sea had always been in his head.

“You rode horseback, with and without a saddle,” Natalia said, and in James’ mind the wide spaces of a park with tall trees and beautiful flowers took shape. He was racing a girl, and her long reddish curls tangled in the air. She was laughing and glancing at him with beautiful blue eyes, big and round like... _Marija’s saucers_.

James blinked and the girl disappeared.

“Now, I don’t think Nick will make you face an obstacle course, but you never know. Can you ride?” Natalia asked with her matter-of-fact attitude.

“Yeah.” James massaged his temple. He could feel a headache coming. “I think I can.”

“Your favorite horse was white,” Natalia said. “It was a gift from your uncle Nikolaj for your eighth birthday.”

The man above him had called a name, _Yakov, Yakov._ He had fought back, and the Asset had been showered by his blood when he cut his throat. Nikolaj Nikolaevich.

James’ breath faltered, but he kept his eyes on the letter Natasha was showing him. It was written in a quick, lopsided, curvy hand. It was addressed, _Dear Jane_. It was signed, _Your loving sister_ , _Margaretta_.

 _“Let’s go back, Yasha, or_ mumiya _will tell Margaretta not to give us dessert.”_

James whimpered and pressed his thumb against his right eye. God, it hurt. Natalia looked at him sideways.

“Are you okay?” she asked, and he shuddered at the thinly concealed interest in her tone. It wasn’t a matter of wellbeing with her. It wasn’t the concern he would have heard in Steve’s voice. It was curiosity. It was an unspoken question. _Why does this upset him?_ James really wanted to have an answer. James really wanted to have the answer _before_ Natalia Romanova.

“I’m fine,” he said in slurring Sokovian. “A white horse. Nikolaj Nikolaevich gave it to hi– to me for my birthday.”

It was a mission. Just another mission. He had gone undercover before. A girl with strawberry blond hair and a blue face flashed in his mind. Two children with mousy curls, hiding under a piano. A priest, lying in the grass, crooked spectacles on his nose and hazel eyes facing stats he could not see. _The Asset did that. Not me. Not James. The Asset. But I’m the Asset. The Winter Soldier. The Fist of HYDRA–_

James clenched his jaw, fighting against the desire to throw up. “Tell me more.”

Natalia retrieved another letter – _Your loving sister, Margaretta_ –, her eyes piercing a hole into the side of his head. She was going to find out. She was going to find out about his headaches and his arm. She was going to find out about the Winter Soldier. Not now. Not now. Another time. Another problem. Focus, _Soldat_. Focus on the mission.

“You were a troublemaker,” she said. They didn’t look at each other, but Natalia pointed at a paragraph inside the letter.

> _Gilliard told me a funny story about little Yasha yesterday. Last week, during dinner, he plunged beneath the table, pulled off the slipper of one of the maids-of-honor, and carried it proudly as a trophy to His Imperial Highness, his father. His Imperial Highness sternly ordered him to put it back, and the Tsarevich disappeared again under the table. Suddenly the lady screamed. Before replacing the slipper on her foot, Yakov had inserted into its toe an enormous ripe strawberry. Six days have passed and still he is not allowed at the dinner table._

A bubble of laughter exploded on James’ lips. It sounded somewhere between a sob and a giggle. He could imagine it; a long table, like the one in the Winter Palace, covered by a long, immaculate tablecloth. Golden rimmed ceramics, silver chalices, so many pieces of cutlery he wasn’t completely sure how to use. He imagined being nine, being bored, the heels of his shiny shoes bumping against the wooden chairs with lion paws. He imagined sticking his tongue at the three girls in his dreams; Ol’ga, Marija, Bekka. He imagined them giggling behind their little hands. He imagined leaning his head against his palm, huffing. He was listening to idle chatter about a horse race; someone’s fiancé had won, brought home a trophy, _It was so shiny, Your Highness_. The lady was chirping. Shiny. Like his shoes. He imagined doing it himself, presenting a trophy, so he winked at Bekka and plunged under the table. He pulled off the slipper and carried it proudly as a trophy to his father, who sternly ordered him to put it back. Well, not without a souvenir. He could imagine it – or he could remember it?

“James?” Natalia was smiling, somewhere between mysterious and fond, her eyes twitching with mirth. They looked at each other and James shook his head. _I’m making it pretty when at this stage I should just listen_. _I’m making stuff up. I shouldn’t. Not yet. Not the time to lie yet_. Focus, _Soldat_.

“How old was I?” he asked, looking for the date at the top of the page. _My dear Jane_. This time, he didn’t hesitate on the pronoun.

May 4th, 1913.

Natalia just stared.

“Nine,” he answered his own question in a whisper, brushing his thumb against the faded ink.

 _It was in Tsarskoye Selo, wasn’t it?_ His breath quivered.

“Were you born in 1904 too?” Natalia asked, imperturbable.

“I...” James hesitated, his brows furrowing.

 _Yes,_ said a voice in his head that sounded like Natalia’s _. You were born March 10 th, 1904. You were born in a palace by the sea. Peterhof. You could ride horseback since you were three. You were a troublemaker._

This was a test.

“Yes,” he said. “And why are you saying ‘too’?” He looked at her pointedly.

She smiled knowingly. “Very good, Your Highness.”

On the way back from the library, James asked Natalia to stop at a tobacconist that wasn’t already closed. She looked at him curiously, but didn’t object. They didn’t talk much, just a couple of sentences thrown around, some trick questions to take James by surprise. Mostly, James was attempting to process all the information he had acquired during the day. He tried not to think about Natalia’s piercing green eyes – _she is going to find out about the Winter Soldier_.

His photographic memory helped. Everything was there in his head, like pages of a scrapbook, but he still needed time to catalogue every single sentence, every paragraph, every comma. Yes, the books were interesting enough, but the letters. The letters were the real deal. And not even the ones by the courtiers who talked about the marvels of the palace where Yakov Yur’yevich was born. No, the other ones, the ones that talked about little Yasha, the ones written by that woman, Margaretta. He had no idea how Natalia had managed to get to them – _Dear Jane, Your loving sister, Margaretta_ – but they were the most important piece of information they had. The name – Margaretta, Margaretta – had been in James’ head since the day he had escaped from the facility. Why? It wasn’t common. It wasn’t Margaret. It wasn’t Maggie. It wasn’t even Peggy. It was _Margaretta_. Why was she in James’ head? Who was she? Natalia knew the answer to the second question. And Natalia was keeping it from him, feeding him information step by step, as though she wanted to observe his reaction. _She is going to find out. The headaches. The dreams. The memories – are they memories? The blood. The screams. The Winter Soldier._

“Tomorrow we will speak about the family,” Natalia said, before they entered the small inn. “It’s huge, so get ready.”

“Born ready,” James answered with a fake easy smile. “Goodnight, Natalia.”

She lifted a corner of her mouth. “Natasha,” she said.

Friend?

_Up for debate. But I didn’t try to kill this one. SheisgoingtofindoutabouttheWinterSoldier. Yet._

“Natalyushka,” he replied, with a smirk.

“Sleep tight, Yashutochka.”

Sort of friend. Maybe friends were supposed to keep some secrets. And find out about secret identities. And attempt homicide at least once.

James was still smiling when he closed the door behind him. He hadn’t managed to take off his jacket before Pooka jumped on him, yelling happily. He chuckled, crouching and scratching her behind her ears.

“Yasha?”

He instinctively raised his gaze, but managed to stop in time before locking his eyes with Steve’s. It kept being painful looking directly at him for reasons James still didn’t understand, and he had had a very challenging day. All that intel mixed up with memories, or dreams, or whatever his mind produced, so no, no thanks.

“Hey, Steve,” he said, getting back up.

Pooka trotted towards the bundle of James’ clothes in the corner that she had elected her new favorite place in the world. She curled up and covered her eyes with her long, floppy ears. James grinned, then trained his gaze back towards the other side of the room.

Steve was sitting astride of the window, one leg dangling outside, a notebook propped on his thigh. He was pale, half covered in a heavy blanket he must have taken from his bed, he had deep purple bags under his eyes, and his beard was starting to grow again, scruffy and untidy. Natalia was right. He didn’t look great.

“How was your day?” he asked, voice hoarse, and James smiled when he noticed that Steve was holding a charcoal, his fingers were black with it. “Did you two work hard?”

James shrugged with one shoulder, approaching the window and leaning against the right side. He kept his eyes on Steve’s hands – they were nice hands. “We did some research,” he said. “Turns out I– ” He stopped, thinking about Steve’s discomfort towards the whole plan. “The tsarevich was a bit of a mischief-maker.”

Steve’s tired expression immediately transformed, as if James had said some magic word. His facial muscles relaxed and his sharp features softened. “Yeah, he was,” he said with such sadness – and… _nostalgia? -_ that James felt his heart sink in his chest in sympathy. Steve shifted and looked out of the window, his mind clearly dizzy with the confusion that always came with illness. “He was,” Steve repeated. “Wasn’t he?”

James lifted the corner of his mouth and nodded. “You should close the window. It’s freezing outside.” He curled his hand around the handle.

“Helps me breathe,” Steve mumbled. “I, ah, don’t have great lungs this time of the year.”

“You have asthma,” James said, deadpan, and frowned when Steve went completely rigid, his hands closing into fists.

James’ heartbeat accelerated with guilt. _What did he do wrong?_ It was clear that Steve had asthma; all the symptoms were there: shortness of breath, constant massaging of the chest as if in pain, troubled sleep, the wheezing sound he made when he breathed. And even if he was surrounded by idiots who couldn’t see the basic signs, well, James was the Winter Soldier. He was programmed to notice weaknesses.

“What?” he asked, puzzled.

Steve glanced at him through his long lashes, studying him. “How do you know?”

James blinked, baffled. “How does anyone not know?” he answered, not really putting any inflection in the sentence.

“I try my best,” Steve shot back, defensive.

James shrugged and perched himself on the windowsill, facing Steve, both legs on the right side, thank you very much. So, no chance he was going to look directly at him, that left… He focused back on Steve’s hands, the black charcoal temporarily pressed against his palm, the dark grey graphite staining his skin and fingertips as he fiddled with the stick nervously. He had long, thick fingers, his nails cut short, calluses near the creases right under the phalanges. Veins went through the back, creating patterns, strong paths on fair skin. Asthma wasn’t anybody’s fault. it was a chronic disease, nothing Steve could help. So why was he so defensive about it?

“Not your fault, pal,” he said.

_Pal._

When the word left James’ mouth, he distinctly noticed Steve’s hands relax.

“Some people believe it is,” Steve muttered, drawing a breath that made him cough repeatedly.

James waited until it stopped, Steve’s wrist brushing his mouth, his chest moving up and down heavily, before he took out of his pocket the small pack he had just purchased and handed it over. Steve tilted his head in confusion, but accepted it. His eyes widened when he recognized what he was holding.

“I saw this brand on your desk in Novi Grad,” James said, eyes still on those hands - beautiful, artist’s hands - holding the small pack of cigarettes with such reverence. He frowned. Why was he thinking they were beautiful? What made hands beautiful? Why would he associate beauty with hands? He shook his head. “They’re not the same brand.”

“You bought me asthma cigarettes,” Steve said, and he sounded bewildered, almost in awe.

James shrugged.

 _Friend_ , he thought, but didn’t say it out loud. _I don’t want you to be unwell_.

“I... thank you.” Steve reached out and grasped James’ knee, squeezing it once.

James tried his best not to flinch.

 _Comfort_ , he reminded himself, looking at the hand. _No. Gratefulness_.

His lips curved down when Steve pulled back.

A matchbox appeared out of thin air and Steve lit up the cigarette. A cloud of smoke enveloped him as he leaned back against the windowsill, eyes closed, long, fair eyelashes casting a shadow on his cheeks, a deep groan of relief coming from his throat. And James shivered. And his cheeks were hot.

Why?

Before he could analyze the unfamiliar feeling, Steve’s right hand appeared in his field of view, holding a cigarette between his thumb and index finger. He offered the butt and James gingerly took it, placing it between his lips like Steve had done. He raised his gaze and set it on Steve’s mouth. Steve had full lips, heart shaped, very pink. Very pretty. A corner was slightly raised, the cigarette held firmly with his teeth. He lit another match and James stood still, watching as the small flame traveled towards him, making contact with the tip of his cigarette. His heart was hammering in his chest, but it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t wariness. It was something deep, something hot, something that was holding his insides in a crushing grip, shaking him from head to toe, making the tips of his fingers and toes tingle. He took a mouthful of smoke and– and he started coughing as soon as it reached his lungs. Tears filled his eyes and he doubled over, completely overcome by a coughing fit.

It took all his willpower not to snap and grab Steve by his throat.

“Oh God, I am so sorry, I had no idea you’d never– ”

“I’m okay,” James croaked. “Okay. I didn’t...” He wiped a corner of his eye with his thumb. Steve was holding his right elbow, steadying him, and James’ heart skipped a beat. If Steve had held James’ left arm, he would have felt... Steve pulled back, clearing his throat.

“Sorry,” he said again. “Also, for the touching, I know you are not… you don’t like to be-”

“It’s fine,” James cut his apologies short. “Teach me,” he added, raising the hand that was still holding the butt.

Steve straightened up, a little surprised. “Yeah, uh, sure. So, first, pull a little smoke into your mouth.” He put his cigarette back between his lips and took a couple of short, firm draws on it.

James imitated him, somewhat clumsily, his eyes fixed on Steve’s mouth – his pretty, pretty mouth.

“Now, hold it in your mouth for a moment,” Steve whispered, and the smoke slipped outside his, framing his sharp cheekbones and curling oddly around his long, straight nose.

Oh.

James held it in with a great effort, letting it cool down.

“This way you won’t irritate your throat,” Steve was saying, voice deep, then he removed the cigarette from his mouth. “Inhale, like this, taking a deep breath.” He did so and his eyelashes fluttered. Clearly, the cigarettes were helping him.

James imitated him and relaxed when the smoke lazily filled his lungs. Oh, nice. Good feeling. He repeated the process a couple of times, then attempted a quick glance at Steve. He was still smiling. Still smoking. Still pretty.

Right.

“Thank you,” James said, gruffly.

“Thank you for buying them,” Steve answered, a bit sheepishly, as if a bit ashamed of his previous behavior. “And, uh, sorry for my reaction. People like me... people with asthma and… other stuff.” he bit his lips. “We are a “burden to society”.” His tone was bitter. “You know, poor genetics.”

James looked at him, taking his words into consideration. Well, asthma could be a problem, sure, but so could be having to think about a dog when escaping a secret facility. Even the best assets could have soft spots. “You have weaknesses,” he conceded.

Steve glanced at him with a funny look in his eyes. James shrugged, confused, and a short laugh left Steve’s – pretty – mouth. He finished his cigarette, then threw it out the window. He let out a small cough, the cold winter hair playing with the strands of his blond hair.

“All right, poor genetics, you are going to freeze.” James hopped down and moved a hand briskly towards the inside of the room. He didn’t attempt physical contact. He had had enough touching for the day.

Steve slid off the sill and closed the window, the blanket still wrapped around him. He threw the notebook on the bed and it opened, the charcoal rolling on a half-sketched silhouette.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you,” he said much more cheerfully, opening a drawer of the dresser and taking out the blue peacoat James had stolen from some rich joe on the train. He thought Natalia – Natasha – had thrown it away. Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I mended it,” he said, offering it to James.

James took it, instinctively, and turned it in his hands. The stitches on the back were precise, but in a slightly lighter blue, almost invisible.

Oh.

That was.

Nice.

Like the cigarettes. Mutual niceties.

“I– ”

Steve let out a nervous chuckle. “I get bored easily. Can’t keep my hands still.”

 _Alright_. James thought. Just this once. _Thank him properly. Like a man._

He raised his eyes and met Steve’s blue irises. They were bloodshot and stood out against the irritated skin that surrounded them. James tilted his head, ignoring the white pain that shot through his temples. He was used to it. He was used to pain. He could– just for a few moments... Steve’s eyes were ocean blue – like the Caribbean Sea of that book he never got to finish, _Treasure Island_ – and oddly vulnerable and bearing the burden of someone much older. There were some speckles of green near the irises. James stepped forward, head pounding with screams, laughter and blank, unbearable, pain–

_Get up! Bucky, get up!_

_Grab the book. You grab the book._ Ya Tsesarevich. _And I am the cap’n._

_Soldat? Ya gotov otvechat._

– and raised his right hand. It was shaking. His whole body was shaking. He grasped Steve’s shoulder; it was strong and solid. James pressed his thumb into the dip of his collarbone, _and how are his eyes that blue? Why does it hurt so much to look at him?_

“Thanks,” he managed to whisper, and Steve broke eye contact, looking down at the hand on his shoulder, expression dazzled, mouth ajar.

Right. Contact.

First time he had initiated it.

He stepped back, right palm sweating in his glove and left one twitching uncomfortably. God, he wanted to take them off so much. He wanted to hear the plates in his metal hand shift, their mechanisms recalibrating in the right way, unhindered by the wool. _Fuck_. His head was hurting badly. He wrapped his arms around the peacoat, taking deep breaths.

“Don’t mention it,” Steve answered.

What was he answering to? Oh yeah. _Thanks. Don’t mention it._

“Do you, ah, want another smoke?”

A quick glance, so many voices in his head. He nodded.

Steve slumped down on the carpet, shoulders pressing against the cumbersome radiator in the corner. Little shit. He _was_ cold. James imitated him, without sparing him a judging look, and took the cigarette Steve was handing him. A lit match. Warmth all around. They both closed their eyes, smoke rising leisurely around them.

James weighed his options. He could lean against Steve, against his shoulder. He could... But then the screams threatened to come back. They were pressing against the back of his head, looming like ghosts. _Yeah, no_ , he thought. _Next time_. He whistled softly, cigarette in his mouth. He smiled when he felt the familiar, raspy wet feeling of Pooka’s tongue against his ankle.

Nice.

Good dog. Friend close – pal. Nice hands. Pretty mouth. Huge, beautiful ocean eyes.

 _Nice_ , James thought. _Almost familiar._

*

> **Encrypted Message from Natasha Romanoff to Nicholas J. Fury:**
> 
> AHQVGQYSZUSPVGSGOHLNFSPOWSHZPKZWQVMLGIALHYBWOUBPIENKPMBWHTUBIENKPIWNNAZWGAWUHKGUKGHZAHKAGUHKQGNZRGHZAGGIAWQRSASFYXTYLNBWGZUAXGBYLGNHSPGLHGHZIAUGAWZWGDPZOQWFZOFHOEANOZAWHOPRRYSFKFLGZHMLSZXOUEGQALGZKOWSKFHBPEYPVUYGMXEPQFNALFASSPNAYVPEMFWZKSGHAGGISGBWPFFNPSHAQHMLGIYQLRIKMFPOKHKPKNNPPNGIOPNKHYLGILQVICHZTHAHNFSRODYSOXKHQWHAPTSOOZKPUGGIRIUGDWHZHTEPHTGLBPIRKSHULUFZWSHFPTOPSGCA
> 
> **Keyword for decryption** **known only to NF** : HAWKEYE.
> 
> **Decrypted text:**
> 
> Hello Foxtrot,
> 
> Long time no see. Travelling with The Captain to Paname. I believe I have with me the White Wolf. Something happened to him, can’t put my finger on it yet, but I have my suspicions. Yes, he is that good. Need intel in Strzałów in three days about HYDRA’s science projects and everything on CA’s before Howling Commandos. We are missing something. I’ll be To the Ferry for twelve hours starting at 6 pm. Ticket to Astonia imperative.
> 
> See you soon.
> 
> BW

*

7-го ноября́ 1930 г.

November 7th, 1930

They left Dresden the day after, strictly sticking to Natasha’s well-organized plan. Everything was going exactly as she wanted it to, and it was starting to become a little unnerving. She wasn’t used to things going smoothly anymore. She had become more used to working her way out of bad situations since the war, adrenaline running through her veins and doing wonders for her abilities. But, well, after the exciting train trip she could definitely do with a little calm. Calm before the storm. Whatever. She had other fish to fry anyway. Namely, the two handsome fellas she was travelling with.

Surprisingly, James was the one who was becoming easier to read. Their little study session at the library had been oddly revealing, despite his best efforts. And he was good, oh he was good. If Natasha hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was just like her; same background, same training.

But that was just not possible. She would have known. And the most irritating thing was that he didn’t seem to be aware of being that good. Not completely, at least. If James was faking his memory loss, he was doing a really good job – or a crappy one, depending on the point of view – and that was a great compliment coming from the Black Widow. All his expressions seemed genuine – his loss of words, his glassy eyes, the way his forehead furrowed every time she named a time, a place. It was as if he was _actually_ remembering. He also seemed genuinely convinced there was no way possible he was the lost tsarevich. And Natasha knew, she _knew_ it was extremely unlikely that he was; the probability was so small it was not even conceivable. What were the odds that the same day the gossip about the Imperial family corpses came out, the real Yakov Voinov appeared on their doorstep with amnesia?

God, that would make a good Hollywood drama. Starring Cary Grant.

When she planted a seed of doubt in Steve, she only meant to get him on board with the plan. Morally questionable, yes, but hey, you are talking about the woman who played double agent between HYDRA and SHIELD for years. She didn’t _really_ believe James could be the lost prince. He just looked like the kid and he fit the bill, whether or not he was telling the truth.

But now.

Something was wrong. With James, with the way he behaved. It was clear that he was hiding something, but how aware he was of what he was hiding, it wasn’t clear. Something kept slipping Natasha’s grasp and it was infuriating.

“Are you ready, boys?” she called, knocking on the oak door, checking the time on a thin silver wristwatch.

There was some fumbling, then Steve poked his head out of the door. “Yeah, almost there,” he said, a quiet smile on his lips. He always looked old; older than his age at least, his eyes heavy with long endured grief, a deep cut between his eyebrows. That morning, however, he looked almost calm. He seemed even less tired and ill than the day before, the deep purple under his eyes faded to a dull pink.

“Looking good, Rosenberg,” she teased.

Steve lowered his gaze and chuckled, long eyelashes shadowing sharp cheekbones. “Yeah, Jam– ” his eyes flickered towards the closed doors in the hallway. “Jakob brought me some cigarettes yesterday. Worked some magic.”

Natasha lifted the corner of her lip. So that was what he wanted to buy from the drugstore. “Did he?”

Before Steve could do more than blush, James appeared behind him, Pooka on his shoulder, quiet as a ghost.

“Morning, Jakob,” Natasha chirped innocently.

Steve started, jerking up and turning around.

“Good morning, sweet sister,” James shot back, not missing a beat. He walked past Steve, carrying both their suitcases.

“Don’t get cocky. Long study day on a moving car for you.” She threw a set of keys towards Steve, who caught them instinctively, marveling at Natasha’s ability to make things – vehicles in this case – appear out of thin air. “You’re the driver, darling,” she said.

And so they took off again, driving north through Brandenburg. James had his nose buried in a book on all the Voinov properties Natasha had ordered him to read, Steve snatching some not so subtle looks at him when he thought she wasn’t looking. Pathetic.

At some point before Lübben, Natasha drew a thin roll of paper from her bag, kept together with a red ribbon like an ancient parchment. She undid the knot, and the edges uncurled slightly as she unfurled it. It was a very crowded family tree, a beautiful work of art: every name corresponded to a small portrait framed in an oval, like a cameo. James barely lifted an eyebrow in recognition when she spread it on their knees.

“You must memorize the names of most royalty and some facts about each of them,” she explained, and his focused expression shifted to a cloudy one, even if his eyes didn’t move from the pages of his book.

She pointed at a random man with a scruffy mustache. “This was Prince Nikolai Kropotkin. He was the older son of this fella, Alexei,” Natasha explained. “You may have met him at court, before he went mad.”

James looked at her quizzically and Natasha shrugged. “He tried to win his father’s favor all his life, then ended up in a monastery, ran away from there, and disappeared at some point.”

“How is he relevant?” James asked flatly, his book of palaces still tilted at a right angle, gloved fingers curling around it protectively as if he was still deciding if this genealogy thing was interesting enough.

“Nick likes weirdos,” Natasha answered, as plain as him.

James lifted one shoulder and went back to his book.

Natasha glared.

“Was he the one who shot Admiral Potemkin when he was drunk?” Steve asked from the driver’s seat. There was a hint of amusement in his words.

“No,” Natasha replied. “That was Ivan Kostantinovich Sorokin.”

“Oh, right, I remembered the surname ended in -kin. There was a joke going around.” Steve said, an inexplicable smirk on his lips. Natasha could glimpse it in the rearview mirror.

She pointed at Ivan Kostantinovich Sorokin on the chart ass James raised his gaze, but she kept her eye on Steve. He looked strangely cheerful, if… nostalgic? James was looking at his nape as if hypnotized, and Steve cluelessly went on with a singsong voice. “Sorokin shot Potemkin…” and as he pronounced it, James mouthed, “…in the botkin.”

Two quick thoughts popped in Natasha’s mind. First, that was the lamest joke ever. Second, Steve and James both knew the same joke. A joke she had never heard of in her life. And James was smiling shyly, the kind of smile you get when you realize you are sharing a secret.

“Was it in the paper?” she asked, casually.

Steve glanced at her quickly in the rearview mirror, and he suddenly seemed to regret opening his mouth at all. “Yeah, I guess,” he fumbled evasively.

Natasha hummed. But Steve’s involvement had sparked James’ curiosity. Of course.

“Who is this?” he asked, pointing at a severe looking man.

“Baron Pushkin,” Natasha replied. “He was a talented poet. Sadly, he was shot dead at thirty-four by an admirer of his wife who, being a beautiful and remarkable young woman, shared my name.”

“Alma?” James joked.

“We _are_ feisty today.” She couldn’t help but smile, pleased at James’ sudden wit. It was as if his personality was slowly seeping through his well-built walls. Good.

He shrugged again, dark blue eyes darting towards Steve every three seconds.

“He was also very short,” Steve added, definitely more reluctant than before.

Natasha frowned. “How do you know that?”

Steve cleared his throat. “Portraits,” he croaked.

Right. She really needed that intel from Nick.

They went on for a while, James pointing at random people with an oddly distant expression on his face, and Natasha providing him with names and facts she knew about them. Uncle Vanya loved his vodka more than his wife; Count Sergei used to go everywhere, even to the restroom, wearing a feathered hat to cover his bald head; Count Anatoly had a huge wart on his nose that made all the frivolous dames laugh at his expense, but when he hit 40 he married a Serbian princess so beautiful and so rich, nobody ever dared to open their mouth again. James smiled at some of the funniest anecdotes, his eyes crinkling at the sides, a softness in his features that Natasha hadn’t seen before. He and Steve often exchanged furtive looks in the rearview mirror; something private and intimate that made Natasha feel like an intruder.

“Grand Duchess Xenia,” Natasha said, nodding towards a portrait in a corner. They were almost at the end and James was eyeing his book on palaces with obvious interest. Xenia Nikolaevna was the Tsar’s aunt, a dark haired woman with a turned-up nose. “She was abroad when the coup happened. A friend in Paris told me she’s gotten very fat.”

James was pressing a fingertip to the corner of his book. He seemed distracted by the lousy binding. “Has she?” he mumbled absent-mindedly. “I recall her yellow cat.”

Natasha froze and whispered before she could stop herself. “I don’t believe we told him that.”

In the driver’s seat Steve stiffened, his knuckles white around the wheel and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Silence fell.

“All right!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Lunch break!”

“Closest family,” Natasha announced, looking longingly at the outskirts of Stralsund that were already visible on the horizon. With any luck, intel from Nick was waiting for them at the safehouse.

She opened her suitcase and took out a notebook. The Imperial Family was something she had intentionally kept last. The Tsar Yuri’s family didn’t appear on the old chart that she had stolen; that one ended with Yakov’s father, uncles, and aunts as children, some of the younger ones not even born.

To broach the subject she needed a stronger approach. She opened the notebook where she had carefully placed a photograph. It was an official one, taken not so many years before the slaughter at the Winter Palace. The Tsar and the Tsarina were sitting in the center of the photo; him wearing his pristine military uniform, her dressed in white, with long strings of pearls dangling from her neck and a delicate crown leaning over an elaborate hairstyle. The two oldest daughters, Marija and Ol’ga, were standing behind them, graceful and elegant in the first flush of youth. Rebekkah, the little one, was perched on a stool beside her father, a bow in her long dark hair and her back straight as a ruler. On the other side, Yakov, not older than ten, was nestled up between his parents’ knees, pouting like usual, fingers intertwined over his left calf. He was wearing the sailor outfit that was typical of the younger members of the Imperial family. Natasha looked from the photo to the man leaning against the fence at the side of the road, brow furrowed as he shared his beef jerky with his dog. The resemblance was uncanny.

“Do we have to do this now? I thought we were taking a break.” Steve had noticed the photo and stiffened. He was idly playing with an apple, but he had not taken a bite of it yet.

“I want to finish before getting to Stralsund,” she answered, an innocent smile on her lips.

Truth was, she wanted to measure Steve’s reaction as well as James, and she couldn’t do it with Steve driving. She turned the photo towards them. Steve’s shoulders sagged and a deep sigh slipped out of his lips. His nostrils flared, and he looked the gloomiest Natasha had seen him in months. It was as if it was physically painful for him to see those faces.

And it was too simple.

He _knew_ them.

He had known them _personally_. Intimately.

How was that even possible?

How did she never realize before? It was there, right in front of her. Everything was plain obvious; his discomfort in talking about the corpses, his rejection of Natasha’s plan, his reluctance, his respect towards the Dowager Empress. He had known all of them. How could she have been so stupid? Natasha was so overwhelmed by this sudden and obvious realization that she almost missed the spark of recognition that briefly illuminated James’ eyes. It was quicker than the blink of an eye, but then James’ expression closed off, his irises suddenly grayer than ever.

_Okay. Get your shit together, Black Widow._

“The Tsar, Yuri Nikolaevich II.” She pointed at the sitting man, stating the obvious.

James nodded. “My father,” he said, with the schooled voice they’d rehearsed before.

“His wife, Ekaterina Feodorovna.”

“Where was she from?” James asked, and his gloved fingers curled around the fence behind him.

“Great Britain.”

It was Steve who answered, his voice low and curt. “Her real name was Winifred Anna Dallas-Yorke, duchess of Portland.” He was looking at the photo with such reverence it was heartbreaking. “She changed it to marry the Tsar, to adapt to Sokovian customs. They said,” he licked his lips, “that it was true love.”

Natasha nodded in agreement. “Yes, that was emphasized by the press. The former Tsar Nikolai and his wife Alexandra, your grandparents, didn’t approve, because when they first met her, when Winifred’s sister married Yuri’s uncle, she didn’t make a good impression on the Imperial family. But they had fallen in love as teenagers, and they married ten years later.”

Steve’s expression was distant, as if lost in some memory. Natasha wondered if he’d heard the story from the family itself. Had he been a page boy? Was he the son of some nobleman who had been killed on that dreadful night in October so many years before? How close had he been to them?

James didn’t react. He just kept looking at the photo, like he was trying to figure something out.

“The oldest daughters, Marija and Ol’ga.” Natasha pointed at them, one after the other. “Ol’ga was the oldest – she loved to read, played tennis very well, and completely idolized her father while having a more strained relationship with her mother.”

James tilted his head, but he didn’t respond.

“Marija was witty and smart. Also, quite mischievous. In 1914, they took out her tonsils.”

James started, shifting to the side uncomfortably. Steve noticed and leaned against the fence by his side, very careful not to touch him, but close enough to be a comfort. Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, but he bore her inquisitive glance without blinking.

When she opened her mouth to say the name of the last girl, James lifted his right hand and shook his head almost imperceptibly. He took off his glove with practiced ease and brushed his thumb against the child’s chubby cheek, as if caressing her. Beside him, Steve was holding his breath. James blinked slowly, like someone waking up from a long sleep, his eyes a dull blue, cloudy, as if covered by mist. His voice quivered when he said, softly, in a whisper, “Rebekka.”

Steve whimpered – it was a dreadful noise, like an animal dying.

James’ head snapped up, his closed off expression returning in an instant. For a second he seemed terrified. “I read about her,” he snapped, and even if his voice didn’t falter, Natasha knew it was a lie.

Steve just pressed his lips in a thin line, attempting a smile but failing miserably. Natasha could sense that he was trying with everything he had to keep it together. She wondered if he’d recognized the lie. He cleared his throat and then shook his head, too many feelings overlapping on his face. There was hope and desperation and refusal and grief and betrayal. Finally, he stepped back, clearly overwhelmed, dismissing James’ almost pleading expression, and climbed back inside the car.

The rest of the trip to Stralsund was silent. They abandoned the car near the harbor – it would most likely disappear before nighttime – and when Natasha cut through the Old Market towards the docks and pushed open the door of a yellow-painted inn, they didn’t question it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  \- _Solnyshko_ = солнышко - sunshine.
> 
>  **Footnotes:**  
>  The Peterhof Palace is the Versailles of Saint Petersburg, or, in this case, of Novi Grad. [Here](https://www.antiquemapsandprints.com/peterhof-palace-petergof-st-petersburg-russia-baedeker-1912-old-map-363963-p.asp) the map Bucky's looking at.
> 
> The Japanische Palais used be a library. It was heavily damaged during the bombing of Dresden in WWII and now serves as the Museum of Folk Art. At the time of our story, the war hasn't happened yet, and Dresden is still the beautiful, culturally thriving town that was at the time of the Weimar Republic. The room where Natasha and Bucky are studying is [this one](https://travel.sygic.com/de/poi/japanisches-palais-poi:3757).
> 
> Margaretta Eagar, already mentioned in the second chapter, was the governess of the daughters of the Tsar. She remained in contact with the family even after leaving service. We do have some letters and postcards she exchanged with the girls. She wrote a memoir, _Six years at the Russian Court_ , when the family was still alive. She indeed had a sister named Jane to whom she left everything she owned when she died in the 30s. [Here](https://limerickslife.com/margaretta-eagar/) you can find some info.
> 
> Nikolaj Nikolaevich, despite being a real Russian general in WWI and a cousin of the Tsar, here corresponds to [Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand_Duke_Michael_Alexandrovich_of_Russia), brother of the Tsar, who deferred the throne when Nicholas II abdicated in his favor.
> 
> Pierre Gilliard was the tutor to the children of the Tsar. The story about the strawberry is true - the Tsarevich Alexei was a mischievous child. You can find an account of it on p. 138 of _Nicholas and Alexandra: The Classic Account of the Fall of the Romanov Dynasty_ by R. K. Massie.
> 
> [Tsarkoye Selo](http://www.saint-petersburg.com/pushkin/), literally, "Village of the Tsar", is an area near Saint Petersburg, again, in this case, I guess near to Novi Grad, in which all the most famous palaces are - e.g. Catherine's Palace and Alexander's palace.
> 
> The message Natasha sends to Fury is encrypted with the [Playfair Cipher](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Playfair_cipher). It was used both in WWI and WWII. As it is explained [here](http://www.online.crypto-it.net/eng/playfair.html), it replaces each plaintext letter pair by another two letters, based on the keyword table. The table is created based on a keyword provided by the user. Paname is a nickname for Paris; Strzałów is Stralsund's original name; Astonia is the codename of the operation to liberate Le Havre in WWII. A bit of anachronism on my part, but hey, let’s call it a tribute. Probably a real spy would do a much better job with a ciphred message than I did.
> 
> Nikolai Kropotkin was actually the older brother of the anarchist Peter Kropotkin. He was born in 1834 and served in the Crimean war. After the war, he developed a drinking problem, which eventually led to his removal from military service and installation in a monastery. In 1864 he escaped and was never heard from again. More info [here](http://dwardmac.pitzer.edu/Anarchist_Archives/kropotkin/chronology.html).
> 
> I am afraid I don't have a real life story for Ivan Kostantinovich Sorokin, but [Grigory Potemkin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grigory_Potemkin) was the surname of a famous general and favorite of Catherine the Great. He was a feisty fella so I wouldn't be surprised if he was shot but some guy - even some guy named Ivan Sorokin.
> 
> [Alexander Pushkin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Pushkin) was a famous Russian poet, playwright, and novelist of the Romantic Era - hence he is a bit misplaced here. He was indeed killed in duel by his wife's lover - who was accidentally also his brother-in-law. Pushkin's wife was indeed called Natalia.
> 
> Grand Duchess Xenia is this story's counterpart, much like Nikolaj Nikolaevich of [Grand Duchess Xenia Alexandrovna](Grand%20Duchess%20Xenia%20Alexandrovna), sister of the Tsar.
> 
> Winnifred's backstory is taken from this remarkable woman: [Winifred Cavendish-Bentinck, Duchess of Portland](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winifred_Cavendish-Bentinck,_Duchess_of_Portland). I chose the name Ekaterina because it should be a "sort of translation" for the name Winnifred. A more accurate translation is certainly Yuri, for George.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there's some fighting and some dancing and a Great Bi Crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update today! :D

(Picture from [Canva](https://www.canva.com/media/MADQ4jElxAM))

*

Управление Гидра по Днепропетровской области

Специальный раздел

ДЕЛО № 16

ТОМ № 1й

Стив Роджерс - Фон, семья,

родственники, происхождение.

The file was thin, just a handful of papers. Natasha remembered a similar one – _Delo N° 16, Tom N° 2, Stiv Rodzhers – voinskiy uchet i razvertyvaniya_– definitely thicker. She had not asked questions about the first _tom_ , then. Clearly, her buyers didn’t consider it of relevance at the time.

The inn was not bad, if a bit old fashioned. The wooden chairs were creaky, the few electric lights off, and old feeble petrol lamps were scattered around to make up for it. Germany was in a delicate balance, terrified to go back to the hyperinflation of ten years before. Natasha was sitting in a corner, no lamp for her. It was a decent table; the innkeeper had nodded towards it when she had approached the counter with a carefree smile, asking if he had a good old chessboard because she fancied a couple rounds of checkers. The table offered a good sightline of the small, crowded room, as well as outside through the tinted windows. She could still distinguish James in the orange light of the sunset, standing in front of the sea, little dog by his side, long hair lazily brushing his chin.

Their ship to Le Havre was set to depart at six the next morning.

She lowered her gaze to the file again, the chessboard’s false bottom still framing it. She wondered how Nick managed to retrieve a HYDRA file so quickly, then smiled at her own naivety. She was losing her touch. Of course, Nick must have files for every single one of her known associates.

She slipped the journey tickets into the top of her handbag and flipped the file open. There was a photo clipped to the thin cardboard; a woman in her late 20s with thin blond hair and deep bags under her eyes. She looked at the photographer with a defiant expression, but she had Steve’s kind smile. The first page of the file was a copy of a Record of Birth, dated July 4th, 1905, for one Steven Grant Rogers, born in New York, United States, to Sarah and Joseph Rogers, both Irish. Natasha raised her eyebrows and turned the page. Another carbon copy of a document, this time a _propiska_ , issued by the metropolitan police of Novi Grad, for _Sara Rodhzers_ , maid, dated just a year later.

“I believe that’s mine.”

_Shit._

Natasha raised her eyes from the folder, quickly running through her options. “Already finished your drink?”

Steve pushed a chipped glass of transparent liquid towards her, eyes firmly on the folder she had not even tried to close. She could recognize when she was busted. He was nursing his own vodka. Steve had never been a man who drank a lot, unlike most of the assholes Natasha had had the displeasure to deal with in the past. He used to say that only a huge amount of alcohol affected him because of his build, and that he preferred to spend his money elsewhere. But still. Natasha guessed that after the day he just had – the week he just had – he deserved at least a couple shots.

“Didn’t like the talk at the counter,” he answered, perching on the creaky stool near Natasha, mouth pressed in a severe line. His beard was starting to regrow at a steady rhythm, darker than his blond locks, and it gave him an unkempt look to rival James. “Natasha,” he went on, a warning in his voice. “What are you doing going behind my back?”

She shrugged. “You know how it is. I like to be the one who knows things.” She paused, then looked at him straight in the eye, before pronouncing every letter. “Used to be.”

“Give it to me,” Steve said, voice low. “It’s none of your business.”

“Did you know him?” she asked, and it wasn’t necessary to specify who. Steve’s eyes darted towards the window, and Natasha followed his gaze. James was still standing there, looking at the dying sun, hands deep in his pockets.

“It’s none of your business,” he repeated curtly.

“You did, didn’t you? You knew the family.”

“Stop talking about things you don’t know anything about,” he spat the words with with harshness.

“Maybe if you told me about them…”

Steve scoffed. “Why bother? You clearly have your usual ways.”

Natasha took a sip of her drink. “Occupational hazard.”

God, those damn baby blues managed to make her feel guilty. She could not remember ever feeling guilty before.

“Do you have one on James, too? You already know who he is, don’t you? Heck, maybe you two organized this whole thing and you are playing me like a pawn. Did you train him to put on this confused and amnesiac mask so that I would actually believe-”

Okay, that was enough. She had to stop him before he lashed out and they did something to attract unwanted attention their way.

“How ruthless do you think I am?” she cut him short, without losing her composure.

Steve’s gaze was piercing. “You don’t want me to answer that question.”

“I don’t have one on James. I asked my contact for information on HYDRA’s science projects and on you, but your file is the only one that I received.” She lifted a corner of the folder from the false bottom of the chessboard to show him there wasn’t anything else underneath, then she moved a checker on the board. “Play. Your friends at the counter stopped talking.”

Steve set his jaw, but pushed a white piece mindlessly.

“I believe he is your friend,” she went on.

Steve’s hold on the glass tightened.

“And I believe he is something else too.”

“Natasha, you are walking on thin fucking ice.”

He was vibrating with rage.

“He crushed the driver’s skull like it was nothing. He _stopped_ the train,” a black checker took two of Steve’s whites. “He said he was experimented on.”

Steve closed his eyes for a second, nostrils quivering as he breathed out. “He said he was tortured.”

“He is a weapon,” she said, as calm as possible. “HYDRA experimented on hundreds of subjects over the years. He must have gone rogue.”

Pain was physically perceivable in Steve’s glare. Sometimes, Natasha wondered how it was possible to feel as strongly as Steve did without exploding. His levels of empathy were over the top. Every single feeling was amplified a thousand times with him.

“You’re telling me that in your expert opinion,” he put as much sarcasm as he could in the words, his knuckles white around the glass of vodka, “that the Tsar’s only son and heir was captured by HYDRA, tortured and brainwashed, and nobody ever noticed? Nobody cared?”

Natasha lowered her gaze on the chessboard and her eyes widened slightly. They were evenly matched and Steve wasn’t even putting any effort in his moves. She took another white piece to gain time. She knew that when put like that it didn’t make any sense. How was it possible that HYDRA had not eliminated the threat? Why did they choose to keep that particular boy and train him to be one of their assets? Maybe he was just incredibly good. Maybe he was just better than Natasha. Maybe he was fooling them all and HYDRA was sending him to off the last remaining member of the Imperial family in Paris.

She thought about James taking off his glove, caressing the paper face of a long dead girl, and whispering her name. She thought about his lost expression, his confusion, his constant amazement towards the little things.

She licked her lips. “HYDRA likes to play with their food.”

Steve’s glass exploded in his hand, sending sharp shards in every direction. Natasha took advantage of the generally diverted attention and slipped the folder into her bag, quickly pushing the hidden compartment back inside the chessboard. The innkeeper was shouting that they had to pay for the glass, and Steve’s hand was a mess of splinters and cuts and blood. “Fuck!” he swore, shaking it like it would make a difference.

Natasha grabbed him by his arm, slammed a handful of marks on the counter, and dragged him towards the exit.

Well, goodbye to stealth.

*

8-го ноября́ 1930 г. 

November 8th, 1930

The ship name was ‘Tasha’, and Steve wondered when his life was going to stop being a fucking joke.

His hand was throbbing, having been tightly wrapped in bandages by a scowling nurse in the infirmary right before departure. She had admonished him, saying that they didn’t want any trouble on board, and Steve had mumbled an apology, even if he wasn’t sure for what he was apologizing.

The night before had been an absolute nightmare, with Natasha not speaking to him, his bloody hand wrapped up by a brooding James in one of his undershirts, and the steady growl of Pooka who had clearly taken in his owner’s upset mood. They barely shared three words all night, sitting against a stack of boxes ready for shipping. James didn’t ask why Steve had a butchered hand or why Natasha looked even more wary than usual, but when the sky had started to brighten on the horizon, he shifted slightly closer to Steve, leaned his hand on Steve’s knee, and started tapping with his gloved finger against Steve’s kneecap.

Two quick taps, one slow, ten quick, two slow, two quick, pause, eight quick, one slow, two quick.

_You ok?_

Steve felt his eyes fill with stupid tears, so he closed them and, against his better judgement, covered James’ hand with his own, trapping it against his knee. James stiffened, but after a second Steve felt his shoulders relax and his breath come out in a sigh. It was warm and comforting, and Steve managed to focus only on that detail – their hands molded to his leg, pressing against each other, drawing out every good feeling he could recall ever feeling. He didn’t really believe what he had snarled at Natasha earlier. He didn’t believe she and James had actually been scheming against him the whole time. Natasha loved him, even if it was in her strange way.

But he was tired and angry, because, once more, she had invaded his privacy without asking. She was going to read that file, Steve knew it. She was going to have her suspicions confirmed, and then even that little piece of his past, the only happy time in his life, the years he treasured so dearly in his heart, would end up out in the open. And he didn’t know if he was ready to face it. Everything was so overwhelming that he didn’t know if he would ever be able to wrap his head around certain things.

Natasha seemed so sure James was Yakov – Bucky. That James was Bucky. And Steve– He felt nauseous just following that thought to its natural conclusion. Because if he was… if he was, it meant Bucky had ended up in HYDRA’s hands. It meant they had experimented on him, tortured him, erased every memory he had. Steve unconsciously pressed more firmly against the gloved hand cradled in his. It meant Steve had never known. It meant Steve never did anything to save him.

_You ok?_

_No, no I’m not._

They stayed like that until the sun rose, then got up and walked to the ship.

So there he was, Steve Rogers, walking up and down outside the two person cabin they shared, holding a suit Natasha had pushed into his arms that morning without preamble – where did she even find that? – waiting for James to come out of the shared restroom at the end of the hallway.

And come out he did, rubbing at his hair with a towel, his blue peacoat open over a white shirt and a pair of trousers that were a bit too long and covered his shoes. He had his gloves on, as usual. He stopped, looking up at Steve with a quizzical expression. Pooka peeked from behind his calves, her fur all puffed up and fluffy. Steve raised a corner of his mouth. Looked like they both had a bath.

“I brought you a suit,” Steve said, a bit dorkily, raising his full arms.

James smiled, amused. “You really are scared I will keep stealing clothes, aren’t you?”

Steve blushed and chuckled. “Didn’t cross my mind, I promise.”

James’ expression softened as he approached him. He took off his right glove; his hand was smaller than Steve’s, leaner, like that of a piano player. Steve blinked away the image of thirteen-year-old Bucky crouched over his beautiful grand piano in the blue room. James felt the texture of the fabric under his fingertips. “This is… this is a real nice suit, Steve,” he said, almost flattered, eyes wide.

“Well, Natasha did manage to get us a car. I guess a nice suit is nothing.”

James chuckled softly, all downcast eyes and long eyelashes. Some drops of water fell from his long hair to his neck, sultrily making their way to his collarbone. Steve suddenly felt very hot. He cleared his throat.

“Come on, try it on,” he said and dropped the whole package into James’ arms – jacket, shirt, tie and trousers – and turned on his heels, making a show of walking away in a rush up the stairs, all the while ignoring Pooka’s snicker. How could a dog snicker? Why did he feel constantly judged by a dog as big as his hand?

_Whatever._

Natasha was good at chess. Steve was better.

They had been playing on the deck since Steve had literally run away from James. They were still not on speaking terms. Steve was sulking after the whispered fight the day before, and he knew Natasha would die before apologizing. She probably believed she had nothing to apologize for. So they played. Quite aggressively. And Steve _was_ better, but he was performing poorly, because his mind kept going back to the hallway, and to James’ collarbone, and to the droplets of water nestled there.

_Good God._

He was still trying to see if there was any chance his bishop could take Natasha’s queen without losing his rook, when she announced that his king was in check. He swore under his breath, but then someone cleared their throat behind them and Natasha raised her eyes.

“Well, well, if _solnyshko_ doesn’t clean up well.” She crossed her legs with a smug smile.

Steve turned and felt like he’d been sucker-punched. James was wearing the charcoal suit, and it looked tailored for him, from the deeply angled collar shirt to the bell-bottom fullness of the legs. He had shaved, his strong jawline pale and smooth, and his hair was slicked back in a very fashionable way, despite the excessive length that still made it look slightly untamed. Every button of the waistcoat was closed, and the faded touches of orange in the tie gave his complexion a healthier tone. Steve’s mouth felt very dry. He was gaping.

Natasha moved her index finger in a circle mid-air and James lowered his gaze, chuckling softly, and obliged, spinning on newly shined dress shoes.

“Wonderful,” she purred. “Now that you are dressed for a ball, you will learn to dance for one as well. Steve?”

Steve blinked, still shell-shocked.

Natasha raised her eyebrows and he squeaked. “But you should be the one… you’re a woman.”

“I hurt my ankle on the train,” she said, flatly.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I’ve been limping for days. Didn’t you notice?”

“No you haven’t.”

Natasha glared and Steve got up. He nibbled at his lower lip, walking towards James, who was still standing, a hesitant expression coloring his features. “I’m not very good at it,” Steve mumbled, embarrassed.

There had been dances – he remembered them very well. All those shiny lights and beautiful dresses. When they had been seven or eight, he and Bucky used to sneak out past their bedtime to the hollow space in the vault to watch the grown-ups dance in the huge ballroom of the Winter Palace, legs dangling from the heavy beams. He also remembered peeking at Bucky and the girls’ dance lessons from his hiding spots in the palace. Waltz, mazurka, polka, polonaise. The Imperial children enjoyed them all and were quite talented. Bucky pretended to endure the lessons like they were a burden, but in reality he was probably the most enthusiastic. Steve had heard his ramblings about technique too many times to count. Bucky had tried teaching him once or twice, saying that a man ought to know his waltz.

Steve took a deep breath, not knowing what to do with his arms, but James leaned his right hand on Steve’s shoulder and took Steve’s bandaged one in his left with unexpected smoothness.

Natasha was grinning wolfishly somewhere behind them, and Steve could hear the smile in her words. “And… one- two- three.” They started moving, awkwardly. Steve was looking down at his feet feeling huge and uncoordinated - oh God, where were blue-eyed HYDRA goons to kill you when you needed them? “One- two- three… No, no, James. You don’t follow. Let him teach you how to lead.”

They stopped abruptly. Steve’s ears were on fire, and James visibly gulped before raising his gaze. A lock of hair had fallen on his forehead, slightly brushing his cheekbone, and Steve felt the crazy urge to fix it. He stepped back, clearing his throat.

“T-the position,” he babbled, and waved his arms like an overly large bird. They adjusted it, Steve’s right hand holding James’ left and James’ right curling around Steve’s waist. He could barely feel it, just leaning against the fabric of his jacket. He wondered how it would have felt against his skin and his brain short-circuited. Natasha was still talking, probably counting them off.

“The suit really, uh, suits you.”

_Oh my God._

“Do you think so?” James curled his lips in a pout, perplexed.

“Yes. I mean, it was nice on the hanger, but it looks even better on you. Yo… you should wear it.”

_Oh. My. God._

James tilted his head to the side, confusion palpable. “I am wearing it.”

_HYDRA? Goons? Come on, a little help?_

“Oh, right, of course, of course, you are. I’m just trying to give you a…”

Suddenly, the weird exchange on the train popped up into his mind – _You look… angular without a beard_ – and he had to collect all his self-control to not explode into hysterical laughter. But maybe James was thinking about the same thing, because a shy, amused smile started appearing on his lips.

“…compliment?”

“Of course,” Steve wheezed, breathless. “Yes.”

He needed his cigarettes. It was the asthma. It had to be the asthma. Now they were twirling, James effortlessly leading, as if he’d done it his whole life. He moved with such grace, back straight, chin tilted up, not pushing, not prodding, just gently rotating, his right hand securely curled around Steve’s waist. They were closer than before, as close as those figurines on Bucky’s phenakistoscope. Steve could still picture in his mind the blue dress on the dame and the decadent way the gentleman’s head had leaned towards her.[4] Driving step, double push, collection. Steve’s head was spinning.

“I’m feeling a little dizzy,” James laughed breathlessly against his ear as he slowed them down.

Steve couldn’t help but smile, goosebumps covering his skin. “Kind of light-headed?” He bent his head slightly backwards to be able to look James in the eye.

“Yeah.”

“Me too. Probably from the spinning.”

_Yeah. No shit, Sherlock._

James stilled, lowering his arms, left hand still holding Steve’s bandaged right.

“Maybe we should stop,” Steve heard himself say.

James’ eyes were bright blue, his forehead furrowed in that infuriatingly sweet confusion he always sported. “We have stopped,” he pointed out in a whisper.

Steve leaned in, head cocked to the side, fingers still grasping James’. He didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t question it. It was as if an invisible magnet was attracting him towards those Cupid-bow lips. He started to close his eyes, to feel James’ warmth breath against his mouth when… Pooka started barking. Steve stepped back, blinking back to reality, and the weight of what had been about to happen fell heavy on his shoulders. He drew in a breath in horror.

“You’re doing fine,” he croaked, stepping back.

James looked at him, dazed, his hands slipping effortlessly from Steve’s hold.

Steve opened and closed his mouth, blood rushing back to his brain, making him feel on the verge of throwing up. He walked past James, almost running towards the other side of the ship. He stumbled down the stairs, bumping against the walls, following the lazy rocking of the ship. He tripped on the last step and leaned to the wall all the way to the restroom at the end of the corridor. He slammed the door shut and pressed against it with his whole weight, slowly sliding to the floor.

His heart was beating at an alarming rate and he could feel his breath coming out in gasps. He patted his pockets, looking for the cigarettes and the matchbox. He lit one with trembling fingers and took a deep lungful of it.

_God._

A broken sound came out of his lips.

What was he doing? What was happening to him? He breathed in more smoke and felt his lungs expand. He must have been out of his mind. They were outside, anyone could have walked onto the deck and seen them. It was bad enough two grown men were _dancing waltz_ on that goddamned deck. And Natasha was there. Natasha was there. Oh God. He hid his face in his hands, cigarette peeking between them.

He couldn’t– He had never thought about a man in that way. Never, in his whole life. He knew about it. He had no problem with queer people – he had been in the fucking army, for God’s sake, he had seen things – but he just… Steve had never thought that could be him. He breathed in a lungful of smoke and James’ wobbly figure appeared behind his closed eyelids. Those blue eyes, his Cupid’s bow mouth, his dashing beauty in the grey suit, the droplets of water in his collarbone, his teeth playing with the end of his cigarette in their room in Dresden, his long lashes casting shadows on his sharp cheekbones. He thought about James’ deep torment, about his pain and his unreliable mind. He thought about what they were doing, sailing for Paris to con an old woman.

And then he thought about Bucky, because of course. Because they were one and the same and yet completely different. There was James – _Yasha_ – and there was Bucky, and there was a part of Steve that wished so hard for them to be the same person. But then there was another part that was sure his soul would shatter in the precise moment when he eventually came to know the truth. Bucky, he thought; the thirteen-year-old boy with an easy smile and a cleft on his chin. Steve thought about looking at him, all dapper in his military uniform. He thought about fighting with him, pinning each other down, giggling madly, and reading books to each other. His heartbeat had been over the top all those times too. He thought about Bucky teasing him, saying he liked Bucky’s sister’s big blue eyes. Steve remembered a crazy thought going through his mind like an arrow – _Oh I like blue eyes just fine, but not hers_.

_Oh God._

Oh God, he _had_ thought about a man in that way. Boy. They were boys. Males.

_OhGodGodGod._

“ _U tebya sryv?_ ”

Natasha’s voice came conversationally from the other side of the door. Steve didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could actually produce a rational series of sounds.

“It was pretty obvious after a while, you know?” she went on, and there was some sweetness in her tone, her usual wit gone. “Well, maybe right from the beginning.”

Steve bumped the back of his head against the wood of the door, eyes closed, lips holding the cigarette firmly like a lifeline. It kinda was.

“You are quite dumb for someone so smart.”

There was affection in her words, maybe even a bit of compassion. Steve wondered if she was sitting on the other side, mirroring him, her red hair like a crown around her head. Was that why he never thought about Natasha that way? She was a beautiful woman. She was charming and flirtatious and undoubtedly a dream come true. She had kissed him once, he recalled. They were undercover at some reception during the war. _Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable_ , she had said, right before pressing her mouth against his. And Steve had felt. Well. Definitely not uncomfortable. So maybe he _had_ thought about her that way, at least once.

“It’s a good thing we are going to Paris,” she went on, casually. “You’ll like Pigalle. You’ll see the world is not just black and white.”

Steve knew what she was referring to. He wasn’t completely clueless. And Sokovia had been… he had known people who talked about Paris’ thriving queer scene: Montmartre, Pigalle, the Claire de Lune. He had seen reproductions of Toulouse Lautrec sketches of women entangled together, his bright colors, his sharp touch, his _Le Basier_. And he had read poets – André Gide and Arthur Rimbaud - and the fire in those poems, the universality of it. He remembered looking at Jean Cocteau’s sketches of Jean Marais and… He wanted to draw someone like that, he had thought. Man, woman, whatever. He just wanted to be able to communicate the same nervous devotion, the same hysterical dependence. He wanted to draw Bucky like that. Grown up and beautiful as he should have been. As James was.

“Have you ever met Doctor Erskine?” Natasha asked point blank, yanking him back from his spiraling thoughts.

Steve shook his head, as if she could see him.

“He was the director of the Social Hygiene Institute at the University of Novi Grad, before he was arrested. He published a book seven years ago. Well, not published, of course, but everyone talked about it.”

He had been quite far from the social circles seven years before, deep into training and scheming.

“It’s called _The Sexual Revolution in Sokovia,_ ” Natasha went on, as if talking about the weather.

Steve felt himself blush again. Great.

“He says that homosexuality is perfectly natural and should be legally and socially respected.”[8]

“Oh my God, Natasha,” he mouthed to the empty room, then cleared his throat. “I’m not…” he started, slightly above a whisper. She couldn’t hear him like that. And he wasn’t about to talk without knowing if someone else was on the other side, even just passing by. He got up and opened the door with care in case she was leaning against it. But her shoulder was against the wall, ankles crossed. They looked at each other.

“I’m not…” Steve started again, gathering all his courage to hold her gaze. She was, as usual, unreadable. And he was, as usual, not sure he could talk about this. He wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to talk about this, if he was ready to address this. “I’m not a homosexual,” he said in a whisper, and it didn’t feel like a lie. That was good, because he didn’t like to lie. “I do… I do like women,” he added, thinking about soft lips and cheeky smiles. _I also like men_ , a voice in his head supplied. “Too,” he finished, deadpan, hoping that she would let it go.

And surprisingly, she did. She straightened up and offered him her hand. He intertwined their fingers and she tugged him towards her. “Let’s go,” she said, gently, leaning against his shoulder, pressing her small frame against his side. “We’ve got work to do.”

And just like that, they were okay. They walked back in total silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  \- Управление Гидра по Днепропетровской области = Department of Hydra in the Dnipropetrovsk region.  
> \- Специальный раздел = Special Section.  
> \- ДЕЛО = Case.  
> \- ТОМ = Volume.  
> \- Стив Роджерс - Фон, семья, родственники, происхождение = Steve Rogers - Background, family, relatives and origins.  
> \- _Voinskiy uchet i razvertyvaniya_ = воинский учет и развертывания - Military service and deployment.  
> \- _U tebya sryv?_ = У тебя срыв? - Are you having a breakdown?
> 
>  **Footnotes:**  
>  You may have noticed that the layout of Steve's file is the same as Bucky's in Winter Solider.
> 
> The suit that Steve gives Bucky is the one he is wearing in the flashback in Winter Soldier.
> 
> Le Clair de Lune was a famous queer club in Paris: [here.](http://www.jazzageclub.com/queer-paris/630/)
> 
> When Steve talks about Toulouse Lautrec's _Le Baiser_ he could refer to either [this](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dans_le_lit,_le_baiser) or [this](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Le_Baiser_\(Toulouse-Lautrec\)). Some details on Toulouse Lautrec and [homosexuality](http://www.henritoulouselautrec.org/in-bed/). Oscar Wilde claimed to have "introduced André Gide to homosexuality", but Gide, one of the most delicate poets in French literature, imho, was already very conscious of his homosexuality when he met Wilde; later, he openly defended homosexuality and he was harshly criticised for it. Arthur Rimbaud had a turbulent relationship with Paul Verlaine for many years, there is a very good movie with a young Leonardo di Caprio that tells the story, if you like the genre: _Total Eclipse_. Jean Cocteau, artiste extraordinaire, and Jean Marais, handsome actor, were together for many years. Cocteau used to draw Marais all the time - does it remind you of anyone? After the passing of Cocteau in 1963, Marais remarked, “ I bitterly regret not having spent all of my life serving Cocteau instead of worrying about my career…”. Details [here](http://www.homohistory.com/2012/09/jean-cocteau-and-jean-marais-first.html).


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Bucky comes to a realization and has a nightmare.

([Picture credit](https://feelinganimatedblog.wordpress.com/2019/03/23/film-review-anastasia-1997/))

*

> _…but now we are all three well again, and tomorrow afternoon we go to Peterhof. It has been raining all day. Yesterday, Mashka and I went for a nice ride. Rebekka lunched yesterday with Papa, Mama, and us, as it was her birthday. She was good and eat very nicely and cleanly. How is your poor Mother? All the lilacs are out and the oaks quite green._

James’ index finger caressed the flourish at the beginning of the majuscule H of ‘How’. Ol’ga always had such pretty handwriting.

 _Ol’ga always had such pretty handwriting_.

He frowned, not sure where that thought had come from. Not sure why he just knew the girl named Ol’ga, the Grand Duchess Ol’ga Yur’yevna Voinov, had written those lines. He traced the letter again; the ink was still a bright black against the white of the page. He turned it, but the other side was blank, and there was no previous or following page. It was just one of the random papers that Natasha had given him to read. Letters to that woman, Margaretta. James reached for his bag, fishing out a notebook and a pencil. He opened it to the last used page. On the preceding one was a series of childish sketches and a name, written many times. He pressed the sharp end of the pencil against the paper and traced the letter H. And again. H, H, H, H. And every time, it was exactly identical to the one on the sheet. His breath quivered and he closed his eyes, bumping the back of his head against the leg of the bunk bed.

A dull ache was still lingering in his head. Looking Steve in the eye that day while they danced… not a good idea. Not that the rest of it had been a good idea either. He could still see it, if he focused enough, like a moving picture behind his eyelids. His good hand curled around Steve’s waist, their coordinated steps after the initial fumbling, the way their palms fit together, despite James’ fear that Steve would notice the metal. He hadn’t. Maybe because of the bandages, maybe because of how nervous he was. It was strange, how worked up Steve had been over a simple dance.

He stopped his train of thought.

No, it wasn’t just that, was it? It was something else. It was the shy blabbering and the way long, girlish, hazelnut lashes framed those impossibly blue eyes. It was Steve’s breath against his mouth and… It was overwhelming, how badly James had wanted it. His whole self had been shaking with want in that precise moment, dancing on the deck, deliriously overcome by desire. He could want things. He could want things now, and he’d thought, _I will never want anything else in the world as much as I want this_.

As if it was an eternity in the making.

But why?

He opened his eyes when Pooka started playing and licking at his toes, and let out a huff of laughter. “Do you feel ignored, _devushka_?” he mumbled, leaning in to gather her in his arms. He bumped his nose against hers and she yelped happily.

“Hey, Yakushenka.” The teasing voice of Natasha came from the threshold. He hadn’t even noticed the door opening. She was there with Steve just behind her; cheeks flushed and the exhausted expression of someone who burdened themselves with the weight of the world.

“I was wondering where the two of you ended up,” James said, going for light-hearted, lifting the corner of his mouth.

“Just around,” Natasha shrugged with one shoulder. “Dibs on the top bunk.”

James made a face. He liked to have the high ground, but the top bunk had its bad sides too. It wasn’t good for jumping into action if needed, for example. He glanced at the bottom one and then at Steve, who was closing the door behind him, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Not an easy task when you are two hundred and forty pounds of muscle.

“I can sleep on the floor,” James finally said.

At that, Steve threw a sideways look in his direction, looking almost surprised he was there. “Nonsense, I sleep better on the floor anyway. Army thing.” He attempted a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

James hesitated. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, things being, well, weird between them. He bit his tongue on a “I have been in the army, too” retort, because even if it was true, or as close to the truth his mind could offer, it was still a patchwork of broken moments. He couldn’t remember sleeping while he was with HYDRA. Not on floors certainly, barely in the white room at the facility. There had been a bed there, so he must have at least lain on it. He nodded, digging his hands into Pooka’s fur, not moving from his sitting position, propped up against the bed leg.

Steve started pushing all their bags and suitcases against the opposite wall of the small cabin, before grabbing his coat and creating a makeshift bed. He then sat on the luggage and took off his shoes, before lying down, leaning his head against a leather duffel that looked extremely uncomfortable, and turned to one side. James observed every movement, focusing on Steve hands – he wanted to feel the pressure of Steve’s fingertips against his own – his chiseled jaw, covered in a short beard, his once broken nose, his long strands of blondish hair falling on his forehead. His pretty mouth, curved downwards.

James wanted to kiss him.

He wanted to press his lips against Steve, feel their breath mingling, push his tongue inside Steve’s mouth. He wanted sharp intakes of breath through that nose, fingers tugging on long locks of blonde hair, eyes closed shut. He wanted to bite Steve’s lower lip, suck on it until it became red and swollen. He _wanted_ so much it was hard to breathe.

Was it wrong?

Pooka wriggled out of his hold and closed her jaw on the hem of the blanket on James’ knees. He blinked back to reality, and watched, slightly disoriented, while she dragged it all the way to Steve – it wasn’t that far, but it was still surprising for such a small dog – and abandoned it on his socked feet. Steve looked surprised too.

James smiled, scratching Pooka behind her hers when she came back all content, her tongue lolling. “ _Khoroshaya devushka_ ,” he mumbled, quietly. “We don’t want Steve to get ill again, right?” She yelped and licked his gloved hand with enthusiasm, then coughed and sputtered at the wool with clear and unexpected dislike. James chuckled. “Sorry, Pookushka.”

When he raised his eyes, Steve was looking at him with such intensity that a pang shot through his brain, worse than the electrical shocks he had been subjected to in the facility.

Electroshock _._

He grimaced, running a hand over his face. Not now. Not those memories.

He closed his hand around the notebook, slipping the pencil between the pages. He could hear Steve clearing his throat, shuffling to get comfortable.

“Good night,” James grumbled, climbing onto the bed, swiftly followed by Pooka, who wiggled her way to his belly, snuggling close to him.

“Sweet dreams, Your Highness,” came Natasha’s voice from the upper bunk.

James closed his eyes, trying to ignore his head. He wondered what it felt like to live without a constant headache. He remembered how it was before his escape – well, bits and pieces at least. His head didn’t hurt. Not normally at least. But it also… didn’t do anything else, didn’t feel anything else. It was a blank sheet on which someone used to write things. And he just... did them. Like a machine. Like a telegraph that sends a message; like the cylindrical container pushed in a pneumatic tube; like a marionette whose strings were played by an invisible hand.

The Fist of HYDRA.

He wriggled the fingers of his left hand and breathed out through his nose.

 _I don’t do that anymore_.

He could choose now. He could want now. And he chose to be James Barnes, and he wanted to dance the waltz and to kiss Steve Rogers and to get to Paris and... He swallowed. And maybe find out who those girls in his memories were. Were those their names? Ol’ga, Marija, Rebekka. Or was he just projecting? Was he just transferring the names of the sisters of the tsarevich onto people he had known… when? In his past life? But his life had always been at the facility. With HYDRA. Killing, butchering, slaughtering. Was there something before that? A childhood?

 _I knew them before_. Those names had been in his head days before Natasha showed him the photograph.

He swallowed again. His heart was beating faster.

 _I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know if you know or if you want to find out. I don’t even know if you should want to find out,_ Natasha had said.

_I don’t even know if you should want to find out._

And it was all there, he thought, in this new life. The want. The will.

So here’s a list of things he wanted:

  1. To be James and close the memory of the Winter Soldier in a drawer and throw away the key;
  2. To help Natasha with her plan;
  3. For Pooka to be safe;
  4. For all of them to be safe.



And, oh, Steve. He wanted Steve. With every single fiber of his body. But it hurt. It hurt so much every time they were close; all the pain he had inflicted, all the death, all the killings, the screams as they came back to haunt him… It broke his mind every time he looked at–

Oh. So that was the price. Oh God, it was so simple. Everything comes with a fucking price.

He couldn’t have Steve and forget about the Winter Soldier.

 _One more step on the road to finding out who you are,_ Steve had said.

It was one more step on the road to _Steve_.

The two things were connected for some reason. He couldn’t have Steve until he was ready to unlock everything. Until he was ready to face the infinite monstrosities of his past. If he wasn’t able to accept that, he would always scream in agony every time he looked into Steve’s eyes. Jesus. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. It was so cruel. It was so unfair.

_If I open my mouth, the horrors will never stop. The screams. They are all here. I did all that. But if I don’t..._

He thought about Steve’s smile, the curling of his lips around a cigarette, that tension between his eyebrows that James wanted to smooth out with his thumb, the feeling of his small waist under Steve’s fingers, the warmth of his breath.

_I don’t even know if you should want to find out._

But he wanted to be James Barnes and James Barnes was no coward. He opened his eyes and felt around until he found his notebook, the pencil still nestled among its pages. In the darkness, he started to scribble.

Updated list of things I want:

  1. To be James ~~and close the memory of the Winter Soldier in a drawer and throw away the key~~ ;
  2. To help Natasha with her plan;
  3. For Pooka to be safe;
  4. For all of us to be safe;
  5. To find out who I am in order to
  6. be worthy of Steve Rogers.



He fell asleep holding the booklet to his heart.

*

Не-время

Non-time

Oh, the dreams of children.

The Red Skull was gazing through the pillars, in a realm so far away in time and space, with Doctor Zola standing by his side.

“There he is, sir, sound asleep in his little bed.”

The good Doctor looked fidgety, nervous, still so annoyingly human. The Red Skull knew Zola was irritated by the fact he had lost his most powerful marionette, that he had almost lost everything because of the Soldier. If the Tesseract hadn’t teleported Zola to Vormir, he would be dead now by the hand of his precious Asset. The Red Skull knew the Doctor wanted revenge against the boy. Well, man. It would always be a boy from his point of view. You know what they say about parents.

They had done nothing but watch and wait for days, as the trio arrived in Dresden, and then in Stralsund. They had watched the memories start to come back, the pieces of the puzzle fitting together as the Black Widow reinvented herself as the personal tutor of the tsarevich. She suspected, but she had gone soft. Old age. The Red Skull had gone soft, too. He understood. But he had also learnt patience, unlike the Doctor.

The Red Skull brushed a fingertip along the upper side of the Tesseract, which buzzed in delight, as if alive. Day after day, he was drawing more and more energy from the cube. Soon, he would be able to come back to Earth, claim his rightful place at the head of HYDRA, and with the superior power of the Tesseract, nothing would stop him from obtaining the power of the gods.

The image of the sleeping prince wobbled. It was a dark night, rough sea, storm close. The Red Skull smiled. Just a few more days until his return. He had hoped the situation would devolve at that point. He had overestimated the Black Widow; she was supposed to discover everything, and they were supposed to destroy each other, tear themselves into pieces. The Winter Soldier – he had seen it for days – would have died for that silly blond Captain. He had imprinted on him like a duckling. But the Captain, oh doubt was still in his heart, refused to let go. If he found out who that apparently innocuous blue-eyed boy was… He could have done all the work for them. And yet there wasn’t time. The Red Skull couldn’t gamble on his return. He was to return to Earth and the Winter Soldier – his child, his creature – could not be a threat when the time came. You can never be too sure, right? Maybe, just maybe, he could give Fate a push.

“And pleasant dreams to you, Your Highness. I’ll get inside your mind, where you can’t escape me.”

As he said this, black, soulless eyes focused on the sleeping prince, and smoky images began to collect around the Tesseract; faces, trees, a lake, all blurred together. He chuckled darkly, blowing softly at the cloud of images, sending them shooting skyward, through the portal. As soon as they left the non-time of Vormir, the glittery dreams silently slithered on the floor of the cabin. They moved first towards the man huddled on the floor, the Captain, curled up like a child, but no, that wasn’t the right person. In a wave of mist, blue, translucent butterflies floated across the cabin to the prince’s nice dress shoes, curling around the rakish suit, then sideways and back to the tsarevich’s berth, swirling lazily, waiting for the right moment and ruffling the pages of his notebook. And then he yawned in his sleep and the ghostly butterflies entered his mouth, his subconscious, his dreams, his mind.

*

Однажды во сне – или нет.

Once upon a dream – or not.

_He opens his eyes in a sunny open meadow. It’s a beautiful summer day, the grass is green, dotted by multicolored flowers. There are lilacs and daisies and tulips in a jubilant tribute to the best season. There’s a huge tree, covered in little pink flowers – is it a cherry tree? Yasha doesn’t think he ever saw one in Sokovia, but he remembers it from books and a trip to Italy he is sure he took when he was little._

_He hears a joyful giggle and he turns to the path that goes around the cherry tree. A beautiful girl is weaving towards him – Rebekka. He knows it’s her. She has auburn hair and a cleft on her chin, exactly like him. She is wearing a swimsuit, it’s green, with a huge bow on the front and a frivolous skirt over capris of the same color, ending just under her knee. She looks pretty and carefree and Yasha smiles, leaning his elbows on his knees. He waves with his left hand – a flesh hand._

_She blows a kiss towards him, and three big blue butterflies flap their wings until they envelop him, making him laugh._

He slowly got up and his eyes were closed, his arms reaching out to follow the butterflies. The door of the cabin of the ship opened as if by magic. In the bed, the little dog whimpered and woke up. She immediately noticed that something was wrong – you know, dogs, they sense things.

The prince in the hallway followed the butterflies.

The little dog pawed at the now closed door, yelping, whining, but it didn’t open. She then turned back and ran towards the sleeping man on the floor, jumping on him, pushing her little paws against his temples. The man rolled over, annoyed by the yowling.

Yasha was climbing a staircase to the upper deck, and a wave from the sea reached his feet, drenching the– _no, what is he saying? He is climbing, yes, but it’s a small rock embankment, and he is almost bouncing on his feet, following Rebekka through a field of daffodils._ _They smile cheekily as they lift themselves on a fallen tree, challenging each other not to lose their balance. Rebekka points in front of them, and there are two girls in the same swimsuit Rebekka is in; one pink, the other purple. Yasha knows them - Ol’ga, Marija; his sisters. He waves to them._

Yasha climbed over the railing of the deck, looking into the black ocean. Smiling, he slid back against the ship’s parapet, waves and rain towering over him.

But what of the little dog and the man?

The little dog was still yelping, howling, whimpering, biting at the man’s shirt, pawing at his face.

“Wha– what, what, what Pooka? Pooka what?” He finally woke up and took the little dog under her armpits, trying to stop her thrashing, but she kept struggling, kept yelping. Finally, the man turned towards the empty berth.

“James? Yasha!”

He got up, burst out the door, stumbled up the stairs, leaving the little dog behind, the steps too steep for her tiny body. He scrambled up, yelling the names.

On the upper deck, the prince was holding the shrouds, teetering on the ship’s rail– _what an absurd thing to say. Yasha is holding onto a vine of flowers at the edge of a cliff overlooking a beautiful swimming pool._ _There are people taking a dip. Bekka runs past him and leaps towards the blue pool. Yasha laughs, shaking his head. Beautiful, reckless sister._

_“Hello, solnyshko!”_

_That’s his father in the water, beard trimmed, striped swimsuit. He looks handsome and put together even in such an informal setting. Yasha’s smile widens._

_Mashka splashes and sticks her tongue out. “Come into the water!”_

_Yasha waves and says hi._

_“Jump in, jump!” Ol’ga is smiling too, her dark hair crowned by a silk ribbon._

_“Come on, Yasha!” Rebekka is already floating, arms moving lazily, a big smile on her round face._

Yasha stood on the ship’s railing, hands curled around one of the shroud ropes, inching towards the abyss.

The man, the man the dog so desperately managed to wake up, was racing to James as the stormy sea crashed over him, a terrified expression distorting his features. “Yasha, stop!”

_On the edge of the glimmering pool, the prince feels a shiver running down his spine. It’s uncomfortable and… he turns a bit, just to peek over his shoulder, but his family is calling to him. They are all there, having a good time. He just has to leap into the clear pond, as Rebekka did, and join them. He will be happy then. He moves to jump–_

“Bucky!”

_He stops._

_That_ name _._

_No, it’s…_

_He looks down, down in the pond, where his family is. His family, they love him, they– but his father’s face is turning hideous and frightening. The skin is falling from his bones, the eyeballs are widening, popping out of their sockets. Yasha opens his mouth to scream in horror, but hands are reaching out for him and they are red, red as blood. He feels his balance falter. ‘Father!’ he wants to shout. But the creature is not his father. His skin is fire and his face is a skull, eyes black and soulless, a cavity where the nose should be._

_“Jump!” the creature shouts, growing in size, towering over Yasha, who is now standing on a column of skulls._

_Yasha screams again as he looks down. In the depth of his soul he knows every single one of those bones. They are all the lives he took, all the people the Winter Soldier has slaughtered and killed and butchered. Revenants are climbing the tower of skulls, glazy blue eyes staring at him, grabbing at his clothes, encouraging him to jump. They are dragging him down, to judgement, to death. They are all here; the priest, the man who had called his name – his uncle, his first kill, his tryout –, the girl with strawberry blond hair, the children in the orphanage, the generals, the rebels._

_“The Winter Soldier,” the Red Skull says, a cruel smile deforming his already hideous face. “Come to die.”_

_One of the skeletons reaches the top of the tower and grabs him from behind, the bones of the arms cutting off his breath. He screams and he struggles. No, no, no, not like this._

“Yasha! Yasha! Yasha, wake up, wake up!”

James jolted awake and gaped at the roaring sea in front of him. The waves were enormous, giant monsters ready to eat him alive. A terrified whimper came out of his throat as he went limp, stopping his jerky movements. There were strong arms around his waist – they were cold, because of the rain, but not dead – lifting him to the other side of the railing to safety.

Safe.

James was shaking, sobs blocking his throat, making it almost impossible to breathe, even to cry. He turned in the embrace and threw his arms around Steve’s neck. It was Steve. Of course it was Steve. Protection. Comfort. He tightened his grasp, forehead pressed against Steve’s neck, not caring about his arm, not caring if Steve would notice. He closed his eyes, a whirlwind of images overlapping behind his eyelids. So many colors, so much fear.

“I keep seeing faces…” he babbled incoherently. “So many faces.”

He could feel the pressure of Steve’s chin against the top of his head, his arms enveloping him so strongly that they were almost cutting off his breath, grounding him.

Comfort. Comfort. Comfort.

“It was a nightmare.” Steve’s voice was strained, quivering, as if he was on the verge of tears as well. “It’s all right.” James could almost imagine that Steve was pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “You’re safe now.”

And despite the storm and the tumult, despite the rain and the sea and the howling cold wind, despite the fact that they were still standing on the upper deck, barefoot, completely drenched in rain and sea water, holding onto each other as if the world was ending – and wasn’t it? wasn’t it? – in Steve’s arms James felt safe.

*

Не-время

Non-time

For the first time in many years – eons? lifetimes? – the Red Skull was angry.

He could feel the rage running in his veins, buzzing through his bones. The Tesseract could feel it too, static energy exploding in waves around the cube, like a beating heart.

He had made an error in judgement. He had overestimated the wrong person and underestimated the right one. He thought the seed of doubt was still planted in the Captain’s heart. He thought the Captain still believed there was a chance the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier had conspired against him. And yet. And yet he had not hesitated for a second to save the prince.

The Red Skull had mistaken love for lust. Sometimes it was hard for him to deal with human feelings, especially those that made them weak. Weak and dangerous.

“No, not again!” Zola had screeched when, for the second time in a week, the Winter Soldier had escaped death, and this time the Red Skull did not look indulgently at his indignation. He had shared it.

That meant…

He turned the Tesseract in his hands, looking for answers in its blue blazes and flares.

It meant he was ready to come back to Earth. He was ready to start his plan. He just had to make a little detour first and take a page from old Kronos’ book. He had to punish his prodigal son; destroy him, erase him from the face of the Earth. There was no need for him anymore; his first experiment, his first success and first failure; no need for his erratic behavior, for his eccentricities, for his malfunctioning. The Winter Soldier was the past. He had to start over.

“Doctor Zola,” he started.

“Yes, sir?”

“I feel a sudden onset of clarity, Doctor. I’ll have to kill him myself. In person.”

He could feel the shiny, beady eyes of the man on him. He could feel his bewilderment. “What, you mean – physically?”

The Red Skull looked at the cube in his hand, its shiny features, its sharp edges. He cradled it like a baby. “You know what they say. If you want something done right…”

He smiled indulgently at the flabbergasted expression on the doctor’s face, but there was also some fear there. He could not blame him. Attacking the Winter Soldier on an open field was going to be more dangerous than doing it from the side, far away in space and time. But it could not be avoided anymore. The Tesseract had made the Winter Soldier and the Tesseract would destroy him.

“But that means… going back?”

Oh, the Red Skull could see he was scared. Good little Doctor, not a man of action. He could see in Zola’s eyes the memories of the fire at the facility, the cold efficiency of the Winter Soldier, his towering figure shooting at him with no remorse.

The Asset would have been beautiful, if he just remained under their control. The Tesseract would have found another way to come back to its rightful master.

But, alas.

“Exactly. I have so many fond memories of Paris, and punishing the lost boy with my own hands will be so delicious.” He twirled the Tesseract in his hands and the portal between the columns started to shine on its edges, brighter than ever. “Well, time to go.”

“But sir, we are… w-we are on another dimension, on another… How are we supposed to get to Paris from here?”

The nostrils of the Red Skull quivered. “Despite being the keeper of the Tesseract for so many years, you underestimate its power, Doctor.”

Zola lowered his head, fingers nervously intertwining in a series of uneasy gestures. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

The Red Skull raised a crimson hand, waving it in the air as if to say everything was pardoned. He was magnanimous. He understood that the small brains of the humans could never conceive the powers of the Tesseract. It wasn’t heresy, just ignorance and blindness.

“Nevertheless, Doctor,” he said with an amused smile. “To answer your question...” He raised his right hand, holding the cube so that its light could illuminate the portal in front of them. “I thought we’d take the train.”

A flash of light emanated from the Tesseract, casting the deserted landscape in its eerie blue light. When the purple dullness of Vormir was restored, the Red Skull and the little man had disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  \- _Devushka_ = девушка - girl.  
> \- _Khoroshaya devushka_ = Хорошая девушка - Good girl.
> 
> **Footnotes:**  
>  The letter at the very beginning, with its endearing mistakes, was indeed written by Grand Duchess Ol'ga. You can find it [here](https://limerickslife.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/letter-eagar.jpg). Obviously I changed some names.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick Fury interrogates the prince and Steve realizes the truth.

([Picture credit](https://unsplash.com/photos/bQxGg8Vx1Vc))

Париж, 9-го Ноября́ 1930 г.

Paris, November 9th, 1930

“Mmm… Ah yes, I remember so well. Uncle Yashin was from Moscow…”

The young man leaning on the grand piano in the living room was gently waving his right hand in the air, his voice deep but plain. There was no sentiment in his words he’d have sounded the same if he were listing the names of the seven kings of Rome.

“Uncle Boris was from… Odessa. And every spring…”

Nick Fury did his best not to sigh as he observed the old woman sitting in the shadow of a canopied chair. In the years they had spent together, he had gotten to know her well, or as well as a man like him could get to know a former Empress, and he could see with his own eyes that she was simply exhausted. When she opened her mouth to speak, her tone was dry enough to make the Caspian Sea evaporate in the blink of an eye.

“…we would take picnics by the shore on Sunday. Haven’t you anything better to do?”

The man stood there, half speechless, half disoriented, until Fury looked at him with a single raised eyebrow. All the blood ran from the man’s face and he quickly fled the room under the judgmental scrutiny of a ginger cat, who was just now entering the proceedings. The little thing waddled towards Fury, rubbing against his calves. Fury crouched to pet him, but kept his eyes on the Dowager Empress.

“I apologize, Your Highness,” he said, slowly, watching as she got up, leaning heavily on her cane. “Most of his story checked out. There was a good chance he could be– ”

The Dowager Empress shook her head, raising a hand to shush him. He obliged, walking towards the table at the center of the room, where an ornate tea service lay untouched on a silver tray. He started pouring the lukewarm tea. At his feet, the ginger cat purred.

“No more,” he heard the Dowager Empress murmur, but he didn’t dare to answer. He lowered the cup of tea on a puffy stool and the cat jumped up, sniffing at it. Fury looked at him, waiting for a reaction. He turned up his nose and Fury rolled his eyes, adding a lump of sugar.

“No more,” the Dowager Empress repeated, more forcefully, turning back towards Fury. He held her severe gaze. The Princess of Denmark had been a beautiful girl, able to turn the heads of half of Europe. Now, at the venerable age of 83, the Dowager Empress of all Sokovias was still extremely elegant and austere. She could bring you to your knees with a glare of her dark blue eyes.

“Your Highness,” Fury tried, but she shook her head curtly.

“No. My heart can’t take it anymore. I will see no more boys claiming to be Yasha.” Her gaze fell down to the table where, near a beautiful floral arrangement, the photograph of a young, smiling child stood proudly.

She didn’t sigh, nor added anything else, but she curled her long fingers around the frame and placed it face down on the tablecloth.

*

Париж, 11-го Ноября́ 1930 г.

Paris, November 11th, 1930

It had been many years since the last time Natasha had been to Paris. If she remembered correctly, she didn’t even know Steve at the time. When they finally passed the Bois de Boulogne Natasha allowed herself to relax. It was a beautiful autumn day; cold but dry. The sky was a bright light blue, the sun shining up high. The orange colors of the season were everywhere – in the gardens, the lawns, the tree-lined avenues.

They had chosen an inconspicuous vehicle to get into the city; something big enough for the three of them, the dog, and all their possessions, which altogether didn’t require a lot of space. Nevertheless, they stopped at an inn before continuing, because James insisted he had no intention of meeting important people without being dressed to match to their status. His vanity had made Natasha smile, and she hadn’t missed the way Steve’s expression had softened, though he covered his mouth with a hand to hide it.

The last two days on the ship had been… weird, to say the least. On the morning two days prior, Natasha had woken up with a heavy headache, as though coming out of a long coma. It had been a strange sensation, vaguely destabilizing. James and Steve didn’t look much better, grey in the face and with heavy purple shadows under their eyes. For the rest of their trip, Steve had slept at the feet of the bunk bed at night, refusing to explain why.

“Where was Uncle Boris from?”

James was checking his appearance in the rearview mirror of the taxi. “I swear to God, Steve…”

“Humor me, James.”

Natasha tried not to smirk at the homicidal expression in James’ eyes. Steve was taking it in with such calm patience that Natasha was having a hard time recognizing him. He had alternated between this irritating and slightly paternalistic side and a more protective one for the last three days. She wondered what on Earth had happened between the two of them that she hadn’t noticed. Thing was, it was probably a coping mechanism to hide the rising terror in Steve’s chest.

“Does it matter? I’ll never pass for him,” James muttered, frustration clearly getting the best of him as he desperately tried to tame a rebellious lock of hair. He was… less and less inscrutable. There was a newfound vulnerability in him, different from the confusion of the first days. He was more open, more trustful, and now he definitely looked at Steve like he would throw himself off a cliff for him. James clearly trusted Steve with his own life now. Furthermore, they were allowed to see new sides of James that he had been hiding up to that point, or maybe ones that he himself didn’t even know up to that point. He could be petulant and vain, and devilishly witty. Full of surprises, that one.

“Yes, you will.”

Steve’s reasonable tone really called for murder – she wouldn’t blame James.

“No, I won’t, because this damn…” The unruly curl fell on his eyes for the umpteenth time and James looked ready to explode.

Steve lifted Pooka from the floor and placed her on James’ knees.

Natasha froze, expecting a complete breakdown at the dog fur that was now on James’ pristine suit, but his shoulders slumped and his gloved hands curled automatically around the small body. He was wearing black leather gloves that Natasha had seen him eyeing at a thrift store in Le Havre. He had not given an explanation for those yet, but Natasha doubted he would take them off, even inside Nick’s residence, manners notwithstanding. That was a mystery she still had to solve. She hoped Nick’s presence would shed some light on the whole situation. Steve’s file was still at the bottom of her suitcase, untouched after that first night in Germany.

They stayed silent for a while, James scratching Pooka absentmindedly behind her ears.

“So, where was Uncle Boris from?”

“…Moscow?”

The car stopped in front of a beautiful mansion decorated in perfect Haussmann style. It was built in cream-colored stone, three floors of sober geometrical frames, and big, airy windows leading the eye up to a sloping roof studded by brick chimneys and surrounded by four circular turrets covered in the typical, Parisian, dark grey tiles. Around it, all the way back to the Eiffel Tower in the distance, a beautiful park thrived: cypresses, winter bushes, and well-trodden paths among the flowerbeds.

As they walked up to the front door, Natasha spotted James trying to push back the insubordinate lock of hair for the last time. He looked handsome and put-together – she thought – but not in an artificial way. The dark grey of the dress suit brought out the darker tones in his eyes, but the beautiful day made up for it, and the blue irises looked as deep as the sea. Near him, newly shaven, Steve didn’t look so bad himself, going by the furtive looks James kept throwing at him. She sighed. This thing between them, whatever it was, was going to end badly.

The door opened immediately after she barely touched it, and Nick Fury appeared in front of her in all his ominous presence. She smiled.

“Sir.”

“Natalia Alianovna Romanova. Well this is unexpected,” he deadpanned.

Natasha’s smile grew, and she could recognize a small twitch at the corner of her old friend’s mouth.

“Oh, but where are my manners?” he went on, shooshing away a footman who had come running, probably outraged that his master had to open the door by himself.

Fury glanced at Steve and James with absolute impassivity, but Natasha had known him for years, and she recognized a curious glimmer in his one good eye.

“Come in,” he urged as they entered a cozy-looking foyer. “I’m palpitating with amazement, shock, and surprise. All three.” Wry sarcasm dripped from every single syllable, and Natasha tried not to laugh at James’ wary expression or at Steve’s raised eyebrow.

“You can stop, Nick,” she said, patting his elbow. “I missed you too.”

“Who said I missed you, Romanoff?”

“Sarcasm and dry humor.”

He rolled his eye and shrugged, leading them inside a very well-decorated office, all tall mahogany bookshelves and comfortable-looking armchairs and sofas. Natasha waited a step behind until James walked past her, before pushing a hand in the small of his back and directing him towards the window, the most visible part of the room. He didn’t seem thrilled about it, his eyes rapidly evaluating the exposed position, but he moved with grace and poise, not missing a beat.

“May I present His Imperial Highness the Tsetsarevich Yakov Yur’yevich Voinov?”

Nick stood motionless, arms crossed over a well-tailored dark suit, unimpressed. He just looked at James expressionlessly for several long moments, and James held his gaze with that eerie blankness she recalled from his first days with them. He wasn’t nervous anymore, Natasha knew. He was a man on a mission.

After what it seemed like a lifetime, Nick started asking questions. “Where were you born?”

“At the Peterhoff Palace.”

“Correct. How does Yakov like his tea?”

“I don’t like tea, just hot water and lemon.”

“Good.”

And they went on, and on, and on, for so long that the sun had reached its peak outside the window before Nick looked to be winding down. Natasha sat down on one of the armchairs at some point, idly stroking little Pooka. She had snuck in with them and was eyeing Fury’s ginger cat dangerously, who in turn was licking his paw without a care in the world, propped up on the windowsill. Steve was leaning against the fireplace, fingers playing absentmindedly with a loose thread on his brown jacket.

By midday, Fury and James were still standing in front of each other, like contestants on a ring.

“Finally,” Nick started. “You’ll most likely find this an impertinent question, but indulge me.”

He certainly didn’t sound like he thought it was impertinent to ask.

James nodded warily and straightened his shoulders, preparing for the last blow.

“How did you escape during the siege of the palace?”

Natasha tried to maintain an impassive façade, but she could feel Steve’s panic from the other side of the room. She tilted her head to the right, just slightly, to meet his desperate gaze and shook her head imperceptibly. _Don’t panic_ , she wanted to mouth, but she was facing Fury, so she couldn’t. They never briefed James on this. Why didn’t they? Why didn’t they invent some crazy story and closed the deal? It was so obvious Nick would have asked something like that, something only the real Yakov would know. It would have been so easy. It didn’t even necessitate an elaborate play of witnesses. Steve leaned against the fireplace with both elbows, hands in his hair.

James stood silent for a moment – then his brows furrowed and his right hand ran through his hair, messing up its perfect style. His eyes narrowed, and for the first time he looked away from the man in the corner, letting down his guard.

“There was a boy,” he finally whispered, his voice so thin it could barely be heard. “A boy who worked in the Palace. He opened a wall– ” He blinked, quickly recovering. Natasha’s eyes shot to Steve: he’d straightened up from his defeated stance, but pure shock was painted on his face; eyes wide, jaw slack.

“I’m sorry, that’s crazy– ” James attempted a short laughter, but it came out shaky. His gloved fists opened and closed. “Walls opening…”

Natasha cleared her throat, focusing James and Fury’s attention on herself. Steve slipped from the room without another word. “So, is he a Voinov?”

Fury chuckled darkly. “He did answer every question.”

Natasha knew that didn’t mean anything. She also knew that a long meeting would greet her soon enough; a meeting in which she would be grilled in harsher ways, a meeting where Nick Fury would use every single instrument he had to find out everything possible about the mystery man in question. She also knew she had to act quickly if she wanted to suceed.

“So, when do we go and see the Empress?” she pushed.

James stilled.

Nick looked straight at her, his mouth a thin line. “I’m afraid you don’t,” he articulated, every word definitive.

Natasha blinked, eyes quickly running to James, whose shoulders had just slumped. She got up and patted Pooka on the butt, pushing her towards her owner. The little dog padded quickly to James’ side, rubbing against his calves.

“Come again?”

Nick seemed unruffled by her cold tone. “The Empress simply won’t allow it.”

Natasha stepped towards him, shoulders back. “Now, now, Nick. Surely you can think of some way to arrange a brief interview with the Dowager Empress.” Her eyes were pure steel. She hadn’t crossed halfway across Europe, survived a train crash, endured three days at sea, only to have the door slammed in her face.

Nick’s expression didn’t falter, but he sighed deeply and went around his desk, opening a drawer. “Do you like the Russian Ballet? I believe they’re performing in Paris tomorrow night. The Dowager Empress loves the Russian Ballet. She never misses it.”

He took out three tickets, and then very deliberately dropped them on the floor.

Steve was standing under a bare tree in the garden. A few white clouds were gathering on the horizon, and Natasha really hoped they weren’t bearing rain. It had been such a beautiful day. She walked over to him, buttoning her wool coat and pressing her nose into the soft fur at her neckline.

“Hey soldier.”

Steve turned towards her and didn’t say anything. He looked devastated.

“Cheer up, we did it.” She raised a hand and pushed her fingertip against the corner of his mouth, lifting it upwards.

He shook his head.

“We’re going to see Her Imperial Highness tomorrow night. We’re going to get the ten million rubles.”

That didn’t seem to lift his mood in the slightest, not that he’d ever cared about it. Natasha was perfectly aware that he had left the country just to follow her. It was sweet, in a way, empowering, probably, if you were a bad person. Steve had left Novi Grad behind because of her. And – and she was growing surer and surer as the days went by – because he had seen something in James, something he couldn’t ignore.

“He is the prince,” he finally said, voice a mixture of disbelief and hope and desperation and defeat.

Natasha opened her mouth to say something – _I know, why are you so sure about it, what are you going to do about it, are you in love with him, with whom are you in love with, the prince or James?_ – but suddenly Nick’s ginger cat darted between her legs, Pooka on his tail, yelping like crazy.

“Pooka!” James rushed out the door, running behind his dog, all his previous composure lost.

Both Steve and Natasha looked on with dumbfounded expressions at the weird trio scampering around until Nick Fury appeared at the threshold, unimpressed. “Romanoff, you all need new clothes,” he said. Then his eye then fixed on Steve, who still looked like he had seen a ghost, and for the first time he acknowledged his presence. “And Captain Rogers.” At this, Steve lifted his chin, pulling himself together as well as possible. “You need a drink.”

***

Steve had never been to Paris. Truth be told, Steve had never been out of Sokovia in his whole life. Well, that would be a lie. He was born in New York, and he lived there for the first few years of his life before his mother followed his father back to Europe where he had thrown himself into some reckless war. Revolutionaries are like that, and the apple does not fall far from the tree. But Steve didn’t remember America at all. His only childhood memories were of a huge palace and the toothless cheeky smile of a prince whose long, complicated name he couldn’t pronounce.

Bucky. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.

How could he have ever doubted?

_There was a boy. A boy who worked in the palace. He opened a wall–_

Steve lit a cigarette, shaking his head. He was waiting outside the umpteenth boutique as Natasha and James – Bucky, God, he was _Bucky_ – enjoyed themselves trying onn half of the clothes Paris had to offer. He’d stopped faking interest in the whole thing after agreeing to let Nick Fury’s lackeys buy him a broad-shouldered jacket, cut in a snazzy hourglass shape, along with a pair of tapered wide-legged trousers for the night.

He took a mouthful of menthol-flavored smoke, shivering slightly in his coat. It was cold and damp everywhere, and he was pretty sure it was going to rain, sooner or later.

He didn’t know what to feel. He didn’t know _how_ to feel. It was all. Too much. Too fucking much. A week ago, he was forging passports in the abandoned skeleton of the Winter Palace, sulking in his misery and in his failures, alone in the world if not for Natasha. And now.

Now he was in Paris, wearing a fancy suit that probably cost more than he could imagine, and his best friend from childhood had come back from the dead with amnesia and his rightful place in the world at his fingertips.

How did he…?

If he closed his eyes he could still see Bucky’s desperate expression as he begged Steve to let him go back for his sisters. He remembered pushing him down the secret passage, slamming the wall panel shut before the soldiers entered. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingertips, the burning tip of his cigarette too close to his lips.

“Hey.”

Steve opened his eyes and Bucky was in front of him.

“Hey,” he croaked.

Bucky was smiling a tentative smile, all wrapped up in a new pearl grey suit, a long coat flung over his left arm. “You okay?” he asked, nodding towards the butt between his index and middle finger.

Steve nodded mechanically. “Needed a bit of air.” He tried to smile, but he probably failed.

“Sorry,” Bucky chuckled, almost sheepishly. “It is quite fun,” he added in a dreamy tone. “ _Shopping._ ” he whispered the word with the same expression of a kid who was doing something he wasn’t sure was allowed.

Steve felt all of himself crumble in tenderness. How long had Bucky been denied this? The simple pleasure of doing something fun, something he didn’t have to do, but just wanted to do. Bucky had always liked dressing up sharply, appearing perfectly collected and worthy of his role. Steve thought about his pristine uniform, the hat he himself had put on his head, like a crown, that terrible night. He swallowed the lump in this throat.

“You look very handsome,” he managed, lamely.

Bucky beamed, his cheeks reddening quickly.

 _I almost kissed him_ , Steve thought. _Oh God, I almost kissed him_.

“ _Une fleur pour ton trésor_?”

Steve’s eyes widened to the size of small dinner plates and violently flinched at the sound of an unexpected voice. Bucky leaned slightly to the left, towards the newcomer, clearly not even half as startled as Steve was. There was a blond lady with a huge basket full of flowers, a long nose, and eyelids that were heavily made up in dark blue eyeshadow. She winked in the direction of the door, and both Bucky and Steve turned in that direction. Natasha was coming out all wrapped up in a white fur coat, red locks styled in a very elegant chignon, pearl earrings, and impeccable make up. She was a sight for sore eyes.

“ _Quatre, s’il vous plait_ ,” Bucky said with a quiet smile, swiftly producing a handful of francs.

The flower seller gave him the roses with a ceremonial flourish, and Steve smiled sadly at how right that was, how fitting, that Bucky was treated with such formality. Even with his longer hair and his haunted eyes, he had an innate grace that Steve could never hope to imitate.

“Natalia,” Bucky said with a charming smile as she approached. “ _Quel spectacle_.”

She smirked. “You’re not so bad yourselves, boys.” She accepted the rose Bucky offered her and motioned him to come nearer, arranging another at the buttonhole of his jacket.

Bucky’s eyebrows raised at the gesture, and a moment later he did the same for Steve, pinning the third rose to his breast pocket. Steve felt himself blushing as he watched Bucky fiddling with the fabric intently. When he finished, he patted Steve’s chest with a self-satisfied expression.

“What about the fourth one?” Steve blurted out, because he had no idea what to say, and because he could feel Natasha’s judging eyes drilling a hole through his skull.

“For Monsieur Fury,” Bucky answered with absolute seriousness.

Steve blinked.

Bucky lost all his composure after half a second and sniggered, before crouching to the ground to lift up Pooka, who must have come out with Natasha. He kept her close to him as he wedged the flower between her neck and a brand new teeny tiny collar. He seemed particularly proud of his idea. As he sank his nose into Pooka’s fur, her bottom wiggling in an attempt to escape her owner’s ministrations and find out what on Earth that thing was at her three o’clock, Steve thought about Rebekka’s beautifully woven flower crowns, and her giggles as she tried to balance them on the head of the family dog, Joy, while they ran in the huge park of the Winter Palace whenever the weather allowed it. Bucky’s blue eyes darted at him, big and fond and full of hope, as he muttered soft Sokovian praises to the little scoundrel.

Steve couldn’t help but smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  \- _Une fleur pour ton trésor?_ = A flower for your sweetheart?  
> \- _Quatre, s'il vous plait._ = Four, please.  
> \- _Quel spectacle._ = How splendid.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where they go to a bal-musette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to both my betas, Brie and Lillaby, who liked it very much. <3

([Picture credit](https://www.gulayberryman.com/bal-musette-a-montmartre))

*

When they got in the car – a inconspicuous black one, driven by a blond man with a bandage on his nose and a grey driver’s uniform with golden buttons –, full of boxes and tired to the bone, Steve expected Natasha to tap on the divider and communicate the address of the inn. She didn’t. Steve only caught fragments of the quick exchange between them, busy as he was with his own buzzing mind. C _inquieme arrondissement_ , _rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevieve_ , _bal musette_. He groaned.

“Natasha.” He tried to sound menacing, but he already knew that he was failing. He just sounded whiny.

“What? It’s just a drink, _Stepanya_. You need to relax.”

Easy for her to say.

How could he relax? The concept itself was absurd. His heart and his mind were a whirlwind of emotions. He felt shaken up, out of his element, completely incapable of finding a solution to the mess he was in. He imagined that if he ever rode a rollercoaster it would feel like that: the speed pressing his body against the seats, the gravity pushing down, taking his breath away, the wind roaring in his ears, the wheels screeching and moaning at the pressure. That’s how he felt. Like he had no choice at all, like he was at the mercy of fate.

He leaned against the windowsill, his eyes automatically seeking Bucky out. Bucky’s forehead was pressed against the glass, his breath creating small circles of condensation on the transparent surface. Pooka was imitating him, perched on his shoulder. Steve smiled a sad smile as the car drove along Cours la Reine, the Seine on their right, the beautiful structures of the Grand Palais and the Petit Palais on their left. Bucky made an inquisitive, curious sound when they passed by Place de la Concorde, the imposing obelisk standing out like the last soldier on a battlefield. Natasha murmured something in French and Bucky chuckled, eyes squinting, features illuminated in the light of the tall lamp posts. They turned right before the vast spaces of the Tuileries Gardens, crossing Pont de la Concorde, heading towards the Rive Gauche.

Bucky’s hands closed into fists while crossing the river, his jaw set in a hard line. Steve frowned, watching as Bucky’s shoulders tensed until they got on the other side, swiftly driving through Boulevard Saint Germain. The deep shadows and sudden flares of light from the shops and bars open late transformed Bucky’s features: his cheekbones first sharp, then round, almost childish; the arch of his eyebrows looming over his eyes, hollowing them; his long hair, slicked back, shiny like the wings of a crow. Every shadow kept transforming his lineaments. Thousands of masks worn on the same face; a face that never stayed the same, shifting and rearranging itself according to the angle of the rays of electrical light that passed through the cabin every now and then.

He shapeshifted. He changed. Light and darkness playing hide and seek on long-loved features.

Loved above everybody else’s.

The car stopped in the middle of a steep road quite abruptly. Steve opened the door automatically, suddenly overcome by the small space. He almost bumped against a tall, lean man, with newly washed, wavy sandy hair. He gave Steve a curious look, then what looked like an appreciative one – _what?_ – and finally crossed the road, disappearing inside one of the bars.

“Where are we?” Bucky asked, getting out on his side with an elegance and composure Steve had failed to notice before. Now, dressed in that smart suit, coat hanging from his left arm, it was so clear, so obvious who he was, who he could be, that it was painful to watch.

“We are going _dancing_ ,” Natasha said, exaggerating a British accent.

Bucky's face lit up, before he instinctively turned towards Steve and opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, something indefinite in his eyes. He looked back at Natasha. “I like dancing,” he said, almost sheepishly.

“You do indeed.”

The _bal-musette_ was still mostly empty, except for a group of young men – among them the one Steve bumped into before –, a dodgy-looking policeman right on the threshold, and the wife of the proprietor behind the zinc bar, busy arranging a stack of liquors. The daughter of the house came down the spiral staircase balancing a stack of clean glasses on a tray, eyes already trained on the newcomers.

“ _Fine à l’Eau_ ,” Natasha said without missing a beat. “ _Pour tout le monde_.”

Steve had no idea what a _Fine à l’Eau_ was, but he figured he would find out soon enough. Bucky seemed transfixed by the lights and the chatter and the small accordion band that was getting ready on one side of the room, wooden floor creaking under their shoes. It wasn’t a fancy place – the other customers looked more like working people than high society, and Steve relaxed a bit in his overpriced suit. He felt more comfortable here than in any shop on Rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

The girl came back with three short glasses filled to the brim with an amber colored liquid and ice cubes. Steve curled his hand around the cold surface, a shiver running down his spine. Pooka chose that moment to peek out of the pocket of Bucky’s coat, and the barmaid squealed and cooed and started fussing over the small dog like a five-year-old might with piglets. Bucky chuckled and allowed her to pet the small dog, who nosed at her hands, smelling her, and then licked her wrist in a clear display of approval.

The girl beamed, a pretty smile lighting up her dark eyes, and started stammering out a shower of questions, cuddling Pooka and looking at Bucky all long lashes and dimpled cheeks. Bucky seemed at ease, answering in perfect French, keeping up with her Parisian swallowed “e”s and closed “a”s. He smiled at the right moments, lowered his head at the right moments, even smirked at the right goddamn moments, as if his social skills had peaked in the last three hours thanks to a brand new suit and a flower pinned to his pocket.

“ _Revnost' tebya ne ustraivayet, Stepanya,_ ” Natasha whispered to Steve with a knowing smile.

Steve didn’t even attempt an answer. He downed his drink, ice clattering against his teeth. The sweet taste of brandy mixed with the sparkling soda hit the back of his palate like a train.

“ _Dovol'no grustno, Kapitan_ ,” Natasha commented, slightly amused, and ordered another round of brandy and soda.

Bucky’s cheeks were red by the time the band started playing the real tunes. He had absentmindedly drunk three rounds of brandy without flinching, looking fascinated by the peculiar crowd trickling. Steve was bemused too. There were women in suits without makeup, hair slicked back and strands braided so tight to the back of their heads that they looked like mere curls of short locks. There were burly men with bushy mustaches holding hands with other burly men with bushy mustaches. During one of the first danceable songs, Steve found himself suddenly facing a tall individual in a long, old-fashioned dress with a huge flowery hat and red lipstick who was one hundred percent a man. There were also traditional couples; men and women drinking and laughing and apparently unbothered by the fact that queer people flocked around them as if it was normal. Steve couldn’t help but gape.

He had known about Parisian bars and clubs and lounges. He’d just imagined them to be... _secret_. Hidden. You-need-a-password-to-get-in kind of places. But here they were. In a perfectly conventional dance hall with its creaky wooden floors and its spiral staircase and its balcony overlooking the dancefloor. _There was a policeman at the door_. Well, he had probably been bribed to stay there and keep his colleagues away but. _But_.

A beautiful blond woman pressed her red lips against the small space behind her companion’s ear, right where her normally longish hair was knotted tightly, with such tender reverence that Steve felt his jaw go slack.

“Mosquitos will get in, Steve,” Natasha sing-sang near his left ear, after closing his mouth with a single finger.

Steve started and stood abruptly. “I need air,” he choked out, before pushing against the crowd, ignoring the protests and forgetting to apologize. The cold November mist slapped him in the face once he was outside, and he took in a deep breath.

_It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too much._

He closed his eyes, fighting against the panic gripping his insides, and wobbled until he reached a section of the wall, somewhere not occupied by people drinking and smoking. He felt tears prickling behind his eyelids. Bucky’s face materialized there. James’ shy smiles and thirteen-year-old Yakov Voinov’s beaming ones, the kind that made his whole face light up, blue eyes sparkling like sapphires. Steve remembered wanting to kiss him so bad on the ship – he could still recall the almost irresistible pull he’d felt towards him. Towards James, towards Bucky, one and the same.

_I love him. I love him. Oh God, what have I ever done to deserve this?_

Bucky was alive and Steve loved him and the following day he was going to lose him all over again.

He groaned, and the image of the two women on the dancefloor substituted Bucky’s face, red lips against white skin, and Steve felt his own skin go aflame with shame and want and guilt. How long had he loved him? So long. So much. Even after he thought Bucky had died on that horrible night, when a part of Steve had died as well, he had loved him and mourned for him the whole time. Bucky was his best friend and his whole world, and they had taken him from Steve for thirteen years. They had taken him and tortured him and made him _forget_.

He wanted to burn the Earth to the ground.

They– HYDRA took everything from him. He and Bucky... They had spent more time apart than together, and _now_. Now he was back, he had found his way back, and Steve loved him in every way a person could be loved.

And Bucky didn’t know. He didn’t know him. He didn’t know who they had been to each other.

Steve was bound to lose him all over again.

“Why did you do this to me, Natasha?” he whispered. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know she was there. “How long have you known?”

She hummed. “You have to be more specific, _Stepanya,_ ” she said, and Steve felt the warm smoke of her long cigarette caressing his cheek.

_Me._

_Bucky._

_Everything._

He had to start from somewhere.

“About me being…” He waved a hand in the general direction of the _bal-musette_.

“Well, certainly longer than you.”

Steve opened his eyes and looked at her. She was inscrutable, like always, but her eyes looked less sharp in the corners, almost softer.

“And about him?”

“Him being the tsarevich or him being, well…?” She raised her eyebrows.

“He’s not like that,” Steve stammered, then thought about the delicate touches and the way James had looked at him when Steve leaned forwards to kiss him on the ship. “He doesn’t know any better. He– ” Steve tried not to choke around the knot in his throat. “He lost his memories. He’s not…”

“He’s not a child, Steve.” Natasha’s tone was stern but gentle, like the touch of a mother. “Even if he is amnesiac, don’t baby him. He knows what he wants.”

Steve shook his head. “And what would that be?”

“You,” Natasha said with simplicity. “He is in love with you.”

Steve swallowed, then pressed his lips between his teeth, ears ringing. “Even if it were true,” he said, voice breaking. _Keep it together, Rogers_. “Tomorrow he goes back to his family. That’s it.”

Natasha leaned heavily against the wall, offering the long cigarette to Steve, who took in a lungful of smoke. Natasha’s cigarettes had a weird aftertaste, something resembling licorice.

“This morning,” she said. “This morning you said he was Yakov. What changed your mind?”

Steve breathed out, the smoke lingering in the air in whirlwinds before disappearing. “What I’m about to say, Natasha, I need you to swear you are not going to tell him.”

She huffed. “You are so dramatic.”

“I’m not joking. Natasha. Please.” Steve turned towards her, entering her personal space without touching her. He looked into her eyes with gravity, and tried to communicate to her how serious he was about this. How important it was to him that she understood how important this was.

Natasha stilled and nodded quietly. “I promise.”

Steve took a deep breath and leaned back against the wall, looking in front of him at the closing _bistrot_ across the road. He followed the mechanical movements of the owner’s sweeps of the broom against the sidewalk for a minute before speaking. “I was the boy – in the palace. The one who opened the wall.” He paused. “He’s the real thing.”

He could see her looking at him in the corner of his eye. She didn’t seem startled. The silence, though, it was unnerving. “What? You figured this out too?”

Natasha shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “That’s why you said family. Just now.”

Steve nodded.

“That means our Yasha has found his family.” There was a smile in her words, and Steve couldn’t say if it was bittersweet. “We have found the heir to the Sokovian throne.”

Steve gave her back the cigarette because that sounded like something that needed at least a smoke in the absence of strong alcohol. Natasha drew a long breath in.

“Well, he found us, really,” she corrected herself after a second.

Steve bumped the back of his head against the plaster, looking with narrowed eyes at the people laughing and jumping from one bar to the other. Parisian life in the middle of the week. It definitely fit the idea people had of the city.

“And you…”

There she was.

“Ah,” Steve said. “Me.”

“There’s more,” she pointed out.

“Other than I’m in love with him? God, Natasha, you’re supposed to be the smart one. It’s taking you an awful amount of time.” He stole her cigarette again.

“I was trying to be tactful.”

Steve huffed out a laugh. “No, you weren’t. You are connecting the dots.”

Natasha headbutted him in the arm, then stayed there, temple resting against his shoulder. “You worked in the palace, you knew him. You were friends.”

Steve smiled sadly, poking at an abandoned glass bottle with the toe of his shoe, making it roll up and down the small portion of the footpath they were occupying.

“When the palace was attacked you looked for him, to save him. You brought him to a servant passage, a secret passage, you persuaded him to run.”

Steve closed his eyes and Bucky was there, falling, terrified. “We were best friends. Inseparable. That night I was in the kitchen. I heard the gates being knocked over, the doors caving in. I ran upstairs and I found him. He didn’t want to run. He was– is so brave. He wanted to get to his sisters. I pushed him down the passage. I promised him I would go back for them. HYDRA found me first.” He crumbled the cigarette between his fingers, not even noticing the burning sensation of the dying embers against his fingertips.

“For a while I hoped– ” He took a deep breath. “I hoped he had managed to escape, but then. When I managed to get out of prison, before meeting the Commandos, I tried looking for him, but everyone kept saying the family was all together in Severoylovka. And then they slaughtered them. They butchered them. Because I– I’d promised him and I broke the promise– ah, fuck.” He ran a hand over his face, trying to stop the sobs that were shaking his body.

Natasha’s small cold hand found her way to his neck, cupping the back and dragging him down to push their foreheads together, her left hand caressing his cheek. “None of that is your fault, Steve,” she whispered. “You were a child.”

“HYDRA took him, didn’t they? They tortured him. If I’d just...”

Natasha kept stroking his cheeks with both hands, thumbs intercepting the tears. Steve enveloped her in his arms, shaking and shivering, and she kept him close, mumbling nonsense in Sokovian against his forehead. He let go of years and years of silence, holding onto this little woman who had been his only link to the world since his mother died, since they lost the war, since he lost any contact with his comrades who managed to survive. He cried onto her, hot tears, ages of pain he never allowed himself to let out, brewing in his guilt and his pain.

“My God, Rogers. Talk about keeping secrets bottled up,” she mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “You give me a run for my money.”

“W-wouldn’t dream of it,” he faltered.

They stayed like that for a while, passersby ignoring them – they weren’t the only couple all wrapped in each other on that sidewalk, even if for very different reasons.

“So tomorrow…” Natasha mumbled next to his ear.

Steve slackened his grip, letting out a shaky breath and took a step back. “I will walk out of his life forever.”

Natasha rolled her eyes at him. “ _Stepanya_ – ”

“No,” he cut her off. “He doesn’t remember me. And that’s all right. I know that… if he did, if he did he may– he may want to stay. Because he doesn’t remember things, he knows me– us better.”

She didn’t look fazed. “And that would be so horrible?” she asked, out of the blue.

Steve froze, then opened his mouth, shocked. “Are you kidding me? Natasha, he’s– He’s the son of an _Emperor_. Princes do not run away with kitchen boys.”

“Princes should be allowed to make their own choices,” Natasha answered sharply.

Steve couldn’t believe his ears. “He deserves to go back to his family. The only family he has left is the Dowager Empress. His sisters, his parents… He is the heir. He has been trained for kingship since he was born.”

“There isn’t a monarchy in Sokovia anymore.”

“Well, maybe he’ll want his reign back, don’t you think?”

“No,” Natasha said with a calm Steve couldn’t understand. “No, I don’t. He was that a long time ago. He’s someone else now.”

“He has a duty!” Steve exploded. “To his people, his country…” he babbled, panicking. His heartbeat was going up again, and he could feel himself starting to have difficulty breathing. He pressed a palm to his chest. _Air, I need air_.

“Steve!” Natasha grabbed him by his shoulders. “Stop ranting. You know perfectly well, probably better than me, that HYDRA rode on the people’s discontent. The monarchy would have fallen anyway.”

“HYDRA brought misery.” Steve said, confused.

“Misery was always there. Yakov’s not going to storm Sokovia with an army and restore the Empire. SHIELD was the only thing that had the means to beat HYDRA and they lost. You lost. Sokovia is lost, Yakov or no Yakov. You are just hiding your head in the sand now.”

Steve recoiled, giving her a betrayed look. He had fought HYDRA for more than a decade. And Bucky– if he wanted to fight against them again, if he wanted to go back, to take back what was his– But Bucky was good. He was a good man, he would make a great Emperor, he… Steve was spiraling. Oh God.

“You don’t want to tell him because you are scared he may want to stay with you. Choose you instead of his grandmother.”

“She’s the only family he has left,” Steve repeated, dazed. Why didn’t Natasha get it? That was everything Bucky deserved, everything that was rightfully his. He was a Prince. He was the tsarevich. Wealth and power had always been his destiny. And he was good. He was so good. He was different. He deserved happiness.

“You are his family, too.”

A sob escaped his lips. Steve swallowed a lump in his throat. He didn’t want to cry again. He couldn’t. “What can I give him, Natasha?” It came out like the whine of a wounded animal. And that was it. The truth. Beyond all the politics, his beliefs, Bucky was better off without him anyway. “I am not selfish enough to ask him to forgo the kind of life his grandmother can give him, just to be with me.”

She sighed, then tried to reach out, to grab his chin and turn him towards her. Steve took another step back, bumping into a lamppost. He staggered. “You should let him decide that, Steve.”

Steve shook his head, stubbornly.

“Steve– ”

“No,” he said, sharply _. No, no, no_. “You promised. We’re going to go through with this as if nothing has changed. It’s your plan. You wanted this. We follow it. I’m not talking about this anymore,” he finished and paused to collect himself.

Natasha didn’t comment, but Steve knew she was upset.

“Alright,” she finally said, quietly. “You make the decisions now, Cap.”

Steve pressed his lips together, annoyed. Why didn’t she understand? “You left him inside?” he asked, as matter-of-factly as possible.

“He’s dancing,” she answered flatly, again with that weird British accent. It seemed like she enjoyed pronouncing that particular word with a strong, open “a”.

Steve tried light-heartedly, “You brought the heir of the most ancient monarchy in Europe to a queer working class _bal-musette_ in the _quartier latin_ and you left him _dancing?_ ” The sentence came out flat.

Natasha shrugged, and looked at him sharply, charging every word with deep subtext. “He’s just James until tomorrow.”

Steve felt the familiar anger rise again in his chest. “Nata– ”

She glared and Steve looked away, folding his arms over his chest. “What if someone remembers him when his picture pops up on the front page of every newspaper in the world a week from now?”

Natasha shrugged again. “The Prince didn’t remember Cinderella’s face, did he?”

Steve let out a nervous, mirthless laugh.

“And if you are that worried, go back inside, take him from whomever he’s dancing with right now. Let him teach you lesson two in waltzing.”

Steve licked his lips, looking for answers to questions he didn’t even know he was asking in Natasha’s green eyes. She raised an eyebrow, then blew the smoke right in his face, making him cough.

_I’ll lose him tomorrow._

“You’ve got tonight,” Natasha said, somehow sounding fond and steely at the same time, and Steve didn’t know if he had spoken aloud or if she read his mind. He wouldn’t put it past her. “Who needs tomorrow?”

Steve scoffed. “You’re a real poet, Nat.”

She grinned, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe I’ll write a song.”

Bucky was indeed dancing, and he was completely disheveled. His jacket lay abandoned on one of the chairs of their table – Pooka growling menacingly at anyone coming too close –, his long hair fell on his forehead and cheeks, springing free from its prison of pomade. He had red spots on his cheeks, like a matryoshka doll, and he was laughing, from his heart, head thrown back and one arm around the waist of a pretty young woman with long skirts and elaborate makeup. To tell the truth, Steve couldn’t tell if she was a she, but he guessed it didn’t really matter.

It was obvious that Bucky was pretty confused at how to use waltz steps to dance to the accordion, but his partner didn’t seem concerned. Bucky was a fast learner, good at catching up, imitating others, whispering questions in the ear of the dame, and then changing his movements accordingly.

Steve watched him for long minutes, wanting to fix in his memory every single detail, enjoying his smiles and his easy laugh and his swift movements. He danced and danced and danced, and Steve drank in every movement, every shift, every turn. He was incapable of stopping him, unable to intrude in that joy. Natasha didn’t return and Steve bought two more drinks, the brandy sliding easily down his throat. He wanted to not think, to feel light-headed, to forget everything just for one night. It was too much. He didn’t need too much that night. He wanted watch Bucky dance and laugh and flirt without even knowing the meaning of the word. He wanted to remember him ten years from now, that smile and those baby blues and that debonair attitude.

The accordion played, and Steve imagined bringing Bucky to a place like this every night for the rest of their lives. Watching him from the sidelines, drunk on cheap brandy and happiness at seeing Bucky so carefree. He indulged in a fantasy of Bucky teaching him the waltz in a creaky attic in Montmartre – everything he had ever imagined a bohemian attic to look like; easels, paintbrushes, light coming in from huge clerestories, and pillows and linens and a victrola and every cliché in the world. He imagined sketching Bucky as he smoked, sprawled on a second-hand velvet armchair, a book in his hands and his long, wild hair in disarray.

“You should ask him to dance,” said a gruff man with a very well-groomed mustache that reminded Steve painfully of Dum Dum Duganov when he turned towards him.

“I will,” Steve said, slowly, taking a sip from his glass.

“What are you waiting for?”

Steve shrugged.

“You should get a move on. Men like that, they don’t stick around forever.”

Steve smiled, sadly. “Believe me, I know.”

From behind him, someone leaned over and a hand softly grasped his shoulder. “Steve.”

Steve’s heart skipped a beat. “B– James.” He leaned into the touch, almost scared to turn around and face him.

But Bucky was faster. He reached out to steal Steve’s drink and took a long sip, eyes full of mischief when he met Steve’s gaze. Bucky looked away as quickly as possible, but Steve couldn’t avoid taking in all of him: the pearls of sweat at his hairline, his long, dark lashes sticking to each other, the loosened knot of his tie.

“Wanna practice?” Bucky slurred, head cocked, looking somewhere over Steve’s shoulder, a half smile on his lips.

“Are you going to teach me the foxtrot too?” Steve joked, letting Bucky – Bucky, _Bucky_ – drag him to his feet and then onto the crowded dance floor.

But the band didn’t start playing the foxtrot. The piano went first, going high and slow, before dragging in the drums. Steve blushed when Bucky ran his right hand from his waist to the small of his back, eyes downcast and gloved left hand gently cradling Steve’s right.

“More like slow dance,” he whispered. “They told me that’s what it's called.”

Steve let out a shaky breath. “Well, it ain’t fast.”

And so they danced, pressed together among embracing couples of all kinds, and nobody spared them a look, nobody said a word. Steve closed his eyes and allowed himself to lean in, against Bucky, letting him swing them gently around the room. He sank his nose into Bucky’s hair, breathing in the scent of expensive cologne and the tingling smell of pomade and sweat. He curled his fingers around Bucky’s right shoulder, pressing against the muscles through the soft fabric of his waistcoat. He could feel Bucky’s breath against the side of his neck, his cheekbone brushing against Steve’s jawline. He ought to feel terrified. His blood ought to pump adrenaline through every single atom of his body. He ought to feel the thrill of holding another man in his arms in front of everybody, of holding _Bucky_ in front of everybody, but the only thing he could feel, running through every fiber of his body, in that moment, that night at the Bal de la rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevieve, was– _peace_.

He started shaking at the realization, a powerful shiver running through his body, and Bucky held him in place, held him together, slightly humming in his ear, following the music.

Steve was at peace. Right there. Right now.

Not even a week before he had talked to James for the first time in that carriage on a train doomed to end at the bottom of a ravine. James’d touched him for the first time, naked fingers against his scalp, and he had believed with horror that all they had in common was war and bloodlust. That they were the same because of that, because of all the blood on their hands. Because they missed the red. _Don’t worry,_ James had said, lighthearted. _It always ends in a fight_.

But now Steve was dancing in Paris with Bucky, a Bucky who wasn’t the Bucky he knew when he was 12 and clueless, a Bucky who didn’t know that he _was_ Bucky, who didn’t know the old Steve. A Bucky he fell in love with anyway. And they were swinging in a badly lit room full of people who didn’t belong anywhere, just like them – only for this night, because the following day, oh, the following day Bucky would go back where he belonged – and they were holding onto each other like castaways after a shipwreck. And Steve, for that night alone, just for that moment, he only felt _peace_. In all the heartbreak and the possibilities and the mystery of who they were and who they might become, Steve, who had only known war all his life, was at peace.

Funny how everything started and finished with him and Bucky. War and peace. Alpha and Omega. Everything was there, even with all that had happened in the middle, all that was still to be uncovered, all that would always stay a secret.

In the end, despite everything, it all came down to a dance in Paris.

_I love you. Right here. Right now_ , Steve thought, pressing his lips against Bucky’s head, and a part of him hoped that, just like Natasha, Bucky could read his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  \- _Pour tout le monde_ = For everyone.  
> \- _Revnost' tebya ne ustraivayet_ = Ревность тебя не устраивает - Jealousy doesn’t suit you.  
> \- _Dovol'no grustno_ = Довольно грустно - Pretty sad.
> 
> **Footnotes:**  
>  In 1926 Ernest Hemingway publishes _The Sun Also Rises_. If you like Hemingway and, more in general, American writers, this is the book for you. I am a sucker for Hemingway's works, he's one of the most authentic writers of his time, I believe, and describes that society with crude realism, in all its contradictions and with all its - and his, he was a deeply unpleasant man - flaws. This chapter, especially at the beginning, is loosely inspired by the bal-musette scene in the book. There, Jake Barnes (YES, I KNOW), the main character, visits a bal-musette in rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevieve, in the quartier latin. The whole book is a deep study into masculinity and gender-crossing and sexuality (as most of Hemingways' works are) and Jake expresses well the contradictory and struggling relationship that Hemingway had with these matters all his life. 
> 
> The Fin à l'Eau is the drink that is everywhere in the book, and hence it makes its appearance here as well.
> 
> The bal-musettes were informal places in which middle and lower-class people gathered to have fun and dance to the accordion. Hemingway says: "The people that go to the Bal Musette do not need to have the artificial stimulant of the jazz band to force them to dance. They dance for the fun of it".
> 
> My French is not good enough to recognise inflections. The information about the Parisian 'accent' is taken from [here](https://awesomefrench.tumblr.com/post/13892133054/do-you-know-some-indicators-of-the-parisian).


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where they go to the Opéra Garnier and everything goes awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cameos incoming! :D

([Picture credit](https://www.operadeparis.fr/en/visits/palais-garnier))

*

Париж, 12-го ноября́ 2010 г. 

Paris, November 12th, 1930

It was a surprisingly warm day for November. Natasha sat outside at one of the wrought iron round tables of the _bistrot_ À la Mère Catherine. She liked the place; little and painted in bright burgundy red on the outside, facing Place de Tertre. It made her think about home, in some sense. Legend had it that when the Tsar’s soldiers had entered Paris in 1814, they had stopped in this small tavern and started loudly asking for their drinks, _bystro_ , _bystro_ , _fast_ , _fast!_ and hence the name. Natasha wasn’t sure she believed it. Yet, it was a fun story. So, there she sat, smoking silently, huge sunglasses perched on her nose, enjoying the warmth of the unusual sun.

The waiter who approached the table had sandy hair and was balancing a round bottomed glass on a metal tray. “ _Votre boisson , Madame_,” he said, and he arranged a pristine handkerchief on the table before placing the glass there with a flourish.

Natasha quirked her lips. “ _Merci._ ” She took a sip, crossing her legs. “ _Garçon_ ,” she called, before he could go back inside. “Tell me, is Monsieur Picasso still living there?” She nodded towards one of the cream-colored houses on the other side of the road.

The waiter lifted a corner of his lip. “ _Oh no, Madame, je suis desolée_. They say Monsieur Picasso left the city to go to the countryside. For inspiration.”

Natasha grinned. “Oh, I’m sure. Is it true that he bought an apartment for his lover just a couple of doors from his wife’s?”

The waiter laughed nervously. “I am not one for gossip, Madame.”

“Oh please.” Natasha moved a chair back for him. “It’s a quiet afternoon. Indulge me.”

The waiter hesitated, throwing nervous looks towards the inside of the _bistrot_ , where his boss was probably waiting.

“I tip generously,” she added with a Cheshire cat smile, as though an afterthought.

Hearing that, the waiter gave a nervous laugh, then sat, laying his tray on the side of the table together with the white towel he had kept thrown on his left arm until that moment.

“Word is,” the waiter said, conspiratorially, “that she lives only three doors down the street from Madame Picasso, down on Rue La Boétie.”

Natasha smirked. “Must be awkward.”

“I would say so.” The waiter tapped his fingers against the table. “He ran to a chateau in Normandy to avoid the talk, but he will probably ask Marie Thérese to join him there. He says she is his muse.”

Natasha let out a deep breath, smoke intertwining in complicated figures mid-air. It must be empowering, she thought, being someone’s muse. She’d sat for artists before, even in Paris, even for Picasso once, but she never had the impression that they drew energy from her, or inspiration. Just mere admiration, uneasiness, sometimes. She found Steve sketching her, once, with a chalk piece, on the back of his ration tin, while they waited in the snow to intercept a shipment of HYDRA cargo. It was a rough profile; curls framing her features, hood covering her forehead, rapid strokes for her eyes – big, distant, inscrutable. He had smiled and shrugged when she raised an eyebrow at him, and she had felt, maybe for the first time in her life, known.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” she hummed, thinking about a chateau in the countryside and lazy days in bucolic settings. Rest. “Are you from Paris, Monsieur?”

The waiter shook his head. “I’m from the province,” he said, lightly. “It’s a decent place, down South, near Marseille.”

Natasha smirked again. “I have been to Provence,” she said, almost dreamily. “Some years ago, I filled in for a colleague. I had the chance to spend some time in Nice, gambled at the Casino in Montecarlo.”

The waiter relaxed in the chair, then, keeping his eyes focused on the naked trees, he curled his lips upwards. “God, you stripped me to my knickers, Nat.”

“Wouldn’t mind seeing you in knickers.” They exchanged a contemplative look. Natasha felt her expression soften, her nails tapping gently against the glass. “It’s good to see you, Clint.”

He winked. “You saw me yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah, by the way, grey is not your color. You should ask Nick to change the color scheme of his drivers.”

Clint crossed his ankles and undid his cuffs. “Will do. I always take your fashion advice to heart. I also just got back the other day. Always fancy ending up at the same time, same place.”

Natasha took another sip from her drink, and looked at him in silence for a while, taking in his apparent easy-going attitude. She could indulge. They had some time. Clint looked almost the same as he did in Montecarlo, from his short, sandy hair, too messy to be combed fashionably, to the bandage on his nose – she had lost count on how many times he had broken it. He had thin wrinkles on the side of his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time she had seen him, and the knuckles on his left hand were red, as if healing from a recent wound.

He spoke first, right when Natasha, despite her good sense, started to move her hand from her drink to Clint’s bruised fingers lazily resting near the tray. “You weren’t subtle in leaving Sokovia,” he commented, sweeping away a leaf that fell on the tray.

“I may be losing my touch,” she conceded, taking a long sip from the drink. It had a sweet aftertaste, but it wasn’t bad.

“Maybe. Or you were travelling with trouble.”

Natasha grinned wolfishly. “Oh, Clint, you know me, I always travel with trouble.”

He shifted his legs, and one of his shoes bumped against her calf. “Big trouble this time, Natasha.”

She lowered her sunglasses and looked directly at him, studying his blank expression. But they were almost evenly matched. “Have you got something for me?”

Clint nodded. “Do you remember when we were in Budapest?”

Natasha nodded. “Best goulash of my life.”

“You were called back to Sokovia. Lukin, wasn’t it? Big guy in HYDRA at the time.”

Natasha stilled. She hadn’t heard that name in a long time. “He needed intel on an operative. Self-espionage, if you’ll excuse the term.”

“Yes,” Clint confirmed. “He went AWOL for a while after that didn’t come to much, right?”

Natasha said nothing. She rarely failed a mission, but that trail, well, her counterpart had been better than her and she didn’t admit that lightly.

“He was named director of a HYDRA Facility in Nyansk, a facility that quite literally blew up, let’s say, thirteen days ago.” He swept another leaf from the table, and this time the tray slipped a little on the table, revealing a folder underneath. “No survivors.”

Natasha Romanov was not someone who could easily be surprised. She had seen and done many things in her not-so-long life; many she wasn’t proud of. Some choices, though, some she didn’t regret. Pulling her punches with Clint Barton in the kitchens of a five star in Warsaw, letting him talk her into going to Paris to meet Nick Fury, going back to Sokovia to follow a lead on a group of scientists, not poisoning Steve Rogers in his bed in the Urals after she got her intel. In all her travels, all her missions, she had learnt from a very early age that nothing was surprising in this world. Nothing was scary if you didn’t let it touch you.

But this.

She tilted her head, soft red locks rolling across her shoulders in waves. She trained her eyes on the corner of the file. “What were they working on there?” she asked.

She already knew the answer; maybe she had known it since day one.

“Weapons,” Clint simply said with a shrug. She waited for the follow up, but that was it. He was an honest man, Clint Barton. Trained spy, American, like Fury, but bred and trained in the fields of an unreliable Europe. A good spy, probably as good as Natasha. It didn’t hurt that he loved her. She didn’t know in which capacity; brother, friend, lover. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he wouldn’t hold back intel if he could help her. Loyal. To her. To Fury.

She waited, but he didn’t add anything more. Clint didn’t know. That meant Fury didn’t know. If Clint just got back to Paris, it meant Fury had pulled him from whatever mission he was in – Vietnam, most likely – right after she left Sokovia. Fury must have sent him to do recon work.

And Clint had come close. Lukin. The facility. Weapons. But Clint never met Lukin during the war, he never found out what Lukin was looking for, what – or better, _who_ – he was desperately trying to get under his control. She just needed to check the file to be a hundred percent sure, but everything added up.

_He’s a ghost story._

“You wouldn’t happen to be involved in those shenanigans, right?”

Natasha blinked out of her thoughts and put out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Now, why would I?”

“Lukin’s facility explodes, Black Widow leaves Sokovia in a hurry with renowned forger slash ex-SHIELD Captain and a fake Sokovian prince.” He rearranged the glass so that it fit perfectly at the center of the handkerchief. “Also, you never liked Lukin much.”

She shrugged. “I never like anyone much.”

Clint bumped her calf again. “What are you doing, Natasha?”

She bit her lower lip. “Earning ten million rubles,” she answered, trying for cheeky. It was hard with Clint, sometimes.

He hummed. “Is Rogers worth it?”

She smiled, fondly. “It’s not like that,” she said quietly, then took another sip from the drink which now tasted watery. “I owed him, like I owed you. He was too deep in his head to understand he needed to leave something behind, whatever that was.” She ran a finger along the hem of the glass. “I fear he didn’t, though, but maybe he will have to now.”

She thought about Steve sleeping at the foot of Yasha’s bed on the ship, and the way he told her he loved him the night before. She thought about Steve telling her that Yasha was the real deal. She let out a breath and lowered her sunglasses to look at Clint directly, then put on a carefree smile. “Or, official version: I needed a con man, he needed out. The Sokovian prince...” She hesitated, unsure how to explain what was happening with Yasha. “Well, I’d never say no to ten million rubles to smooth things over.”

Clint ran his tongue over his teeth, studying her. She held his inquisitive gaze. “The goulash in Budapest was awful,” he said, in the end.

Natasha finished her watered down drink with a smile, red lips leaving a trace on the glass. “You and I remember Budapest very differently.”

The Black Widow had begun her search for intel on the Winter Soldier on a cold January night in 1926. When Aleksander Lukin asked her to do it, she thought he was testing her, to see how gullible she was. The Winter Soldier had been a ghost story for almost a decade by then, a fairy tale that HYDRA put out to keep their best agents hidden from SHIELD. He was said to be a super soldier, a marksman with impeccable aim, an extremely skilled and formidable hand-to-hand combatant. He was the assassin in the dark you never saw coming, the mole you could never suspect, an enhanced man with a metal arm that could punch through reinforced walls. The Fist of HYDRA. He was supposedly able to topple entire battalions in one night, do the work of ten men, and then disappear into thin air. When Natasha first heard his name, he was already credited with two dozen assassinations since the start of the coup.

She firmly believed he was nothing more than a boogeyman.

But then Podpolkovnik Aleksander Lukin had asked her to find him. And he was no idiot. Of humble origins and smart enough to become Lieutenant Major in a short amount of time, he aimed even higher. Controlling the most legendary of HYDRA’s weapons would allow him to climb the ladder in the blink of an eye without a doubt. Enter Natalia Romanova, the Black Widow, gun for hire to the highest bidder.

The more Natalia had looked, the more she found. And when she’d met Captain Rogers – oh, how close she had been to cornering a ghost. When Steve told her about the metal arm of the marksman who almost taken him out, she had thought that was her moment. He would come back. Complete the mission. And Natasha could finally present him to Lukin to do as he pleased. But the Winter Soldier never finished the job. Never came back. Steve Rogers had lived. Aleksander Lukin had risen to the rank of General through other means. Or maybe– He must have found him. He must have found the Winter Soldier on his own, without Natasha’s help. Because of her fame as a double agent – the best agent, but alas, a mercenary – she had become a liability.

She brushed the Cyrillic letters on the paper with her thumb. The blacked-out words were revealing even unreadable. The facility in Nyansk was a cover up for one of the most protected bases outside Novi Grad. It was a scientific center, as well as a storage building for the most sophisticated weapons whose development had been entrusted by Lukin to Doctor Armin Zola, a Swiss genius with a big brain and a bigger disregard for human decency. Perfect HYDRA talent.

The facility exploded the day Yasha had appeared at the palace, covered in grime, lost, amnesiac, and ready to jump at any noise. Yasha, who never took off his gloves, especially the one on his left hand. Yasha, who had the skills of a special operative with no memory of where and when he served. Yasha, who had stopped a fucking moving train.

Natasha stopped herself from running a hand through her hair and irreparably ruining her perfect hairdo. Fuck. How could she have been so stupid?

Yasha was the Winter Soldier.

By some crazy celestial joke, the heir to the Sokovian throne, the only son of the Tsar, was also the most lethal weapon HYDRA had ever conceived. This opened a whole new nest of snakes. How could she be sure he was genuine in everything he had done from the first moment they met? How could she be sure he had not been sent by HYDRA to off the last remaining member of the Imperial House of Sokovia? She knew that if she talked to Nick, he would lock Yasha in the most secure prison he could find first and ask questions later. And that probably was the most reasonable thing to do.

But at the same time, it wouldn’t make sense for HYDRA to send the Winter Soldier to them, without documents, without any way to know they would get to Paris and meet the Dowager Empress, thereby getting them in the same room. Was HYDRA so persuaded that Nick Fury could keep the Empress safe from the Winter Soldier if they had sent him to kill her in more conventional ways? And also, why would the Empress be vital enough for HYDRA to send their most precious Asset in the first place? God, she was getting a headache. She looked out the window at the luminous lights of the lamp posts that dotted the banks of the Seine like little fireflies.

Two things were of the utmost importance that night. First, she had to talk to Steve before going to Nick. She _had_ _to_ go to Nick at some point. But Steve. Steve deserved to hear it from her. Steve would have to be contained, because when he found out, his reaction would be unpredictable. Denial first, almost certainly, but then betrayal and heartbreak and guilt and _rage_. She remembered Steve’s rage on the battlefield. He had been infamous for it.

But Steve had to know, before everyone else.

Second, she needed more intel. If approaching Steve ended up causing more harm than good, she neede the right ammunition to prevent the situation from escalating. And she needed the Winter Soldier to suspect nothing. He couldn’t know that she knew, or his reaction would be unpredictable as well. He might leash out, disappear, panic. She didn’t know what, in that scenario, between him being a HYDRA agent or him being a genuinely good person would do more damage. James had talked about torture, and he appeared amnesiac. How did the goddamn Winter Soldier program really work? She needed more intel. All she had until that moment was just a number of papers on Aleksander Lukin and the destruction of what appeared to be a totally standard facility in Northern Sokovia.

The taxi pulled up in front of the Opera Garnier and Natasha stepped out. Steve was already there, standing on the steps that led to the colonnade, and then inside to the foyer. He was impeccably dressed, the black tuxedo perfectly framing his broad figure, from the white bowtie to the tip of his shiny shoes. He was clean shaven, golden hair brushed to one side, and masterfully arranged with pomade. He looked like a knight out of a fairytale. Natasha could appreciate a well-dressed man. He was holding his top hat with both hands, fiddling with the hem and scanning the approaching crowd for familiar faces. Well, Natasha was ready to bet on which face he was looking for. But as they say, no time like the present. She got out of the taxi and smiled when Steve spotted her, his eyes widening a little in admiration. She knew she looked beautiful in a sparkly blue dress and a fur coat so opulent it turned heads, even here.

“Captain,” she said with a smile.

“Miss Romanoff.”

She held out her hand, white gloves disappearing under the hem of the coat and ending above her elbows. Steve bowed with ease, brushing her knuckles with his lips, always the gentleman.

“Natasha,” he added in a whisper. “You look like a queen.”

“Well,” she shrugged carelessly. “Must appear at my best given the company.”

Steve straightened up, eyes darting towards the square with hopeful anticipation. Natasha felt guilty, but she had to move fast.

“Steve,” she said calmly. “I need to talk to you.”

“Mh?” He looked distracted. “Yes, of course. After James is delivered safely to his grandmother,” he said, tone changed. There was less of the affectionate way in which he had complimented her, and more of the let’s-get-things-tone attitude he had always put on while directing his unit during the war.

“No. It has to be now.” She pressed a hand on his elbow, turning him to face her. “It’s about Yasha.”

Steve’s gaze hardened. “Natasha, we already said everything we needed to say.” It seemed like it took all he had to pronounce those words. “We are finishing the plan. Your plan.”

“Something changed,” she insisted. “I found out– ”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted with a growl.

“You have to care.” She hardened her grasp. “It’s a matter of security.”

That got his attention. “Is he in danger? Is it HYDRA?” He looked around warily, as if he was expecting blue-eyed HYDRA goons to pop up from behind the columns.

“No, he’s– ” Natasha stopped. “Do you remember the night we met?”

Steve blinked, taken aback by the sudden change of subject. “What does this have to do with– ”

“You were shot. Multiple times. By a very good marksman.”

“Yes,” Steve sighed, annoyed. “I remember. I was the one lying on my bed bleeding out while you blackmailed me with my mother’s safety.”

“I was looking for intel on a HYDRA asset. You told me the man who shot you had a metal arm.”

Steve wasn’t following. “Yes. I was delirious, Natasha. There’s no such thing as– ”

Natasha sank her thumb into the hollow of his elbow to shut him up. “Yes, there is. HYDRA had a secret weapon, a ghost, they called him the– ”

But Steve never found out what they called him, because a car pulled over right in front of them, the driver hurried around to open the door, and Yakov Yur’yevich Voinov stepped out. The transformation was astounding, even more dazzling than the first time he had abandoned his travel clothes for a good suit. His hair had been fashionably shortened and slicked back, there was no scruff on his cheeks, and the sharp cheekbones stood out proudly on his aristocratic face. He was wearing a beautifully crafted tux, silk and wool complementing his body like he was born for finery – and he was, he really was. He accepted his coat from the driver and draped it over his shoulders without slipping his arms inside the sleeves. He was holding his top hat, customary white gloves a stark contrast against the black of the brim. Natasha looked at his left hand. What did the metal look like? How could it bend like that, naturally, like a real flesh limb? She shivered.

“ _Madamoiselle_ ,” the tsarevich said, all courtesy and good manners, touching his forehead with his hat.

She smiled pleasantly, giving him her hand. James smiled and held it with his, brushing his lips against the ostentatious ring she was wearing over the glove.

“ _Vous éclipserez l’étoile_ , Natasha,” he said with a slight bow.

“I can do that in the blink of an eye, just give me the right shoes,” she winked, not missing a beat.

She couldn’t help but look at him differently, trying to recognize her own techniques in his ways. James chuckled, then cocked his head towards Steve, and when he smiled at him, there was a fondness there she would never be able to fake.

“Your Highness,” Steve wheezed.

Natasha wondered if he was having an asthma attack. She turned towards him, and what she saw would have broken her heart if she had one. God, the way they looked at each other. Could they be more obvious?

James’ smile turned slightly unnerved as he nodded. “Steve. I had to leave Pooka at the inn,” he mumbled, and he seemed pretty upset by it. “The doorman told me she could stay with his dog.” He frowned. “A big golden one.” He nibbled at his lower lip. “Name’s Lucky. Which is strange. But, uh, they seemed to get along.”

Natasha fought a smile.

“She’ll be fine.” Steve seemed choked up, but then he cleared his throat. “You look, ah, like a million bucks,” he said weakly. Soon after his expression changed, mortified.

James blinked, puzzled, then smiled a little. “No beard.” He nodded again, before quirking his lips upwards mischievously, as though remembering something. “I like the geometry of your face.”

Natasha, for the first time in her life, had no idea how to get out of this mess.

***

After leaving his top hat in the cloakroom, James had no idea what to do with his hands, so he was really glad when Steve handed him a program for the soirée. _Hommage à Diaghilev_ , was written on the top of the page in an Art Deco lettering. He rifled through the pages, then started counting them, one by one. He missed the grounding presence of Pooka, pressing against his calves, pushing her head into his neck, licking and nibbling at his metal hand. He sat in his comfortable seat on their balcony, absentmindedly rolling and unrolling the leaflet in his hands.

It had been two crazy days, since they arrived in Paris. First, the interrogation with the strange, daunting man. God, those had been some of the most stressful hours of his life; at least, what he remembered of it, which was not a lot, all things considered. Unsurprisingly, the Winter Soldier had been a pretty emotionless guy most of the time. He wanted to please, in certain moments. No, want was not the right word, not really. He felt– compelled to please. To avoid punishment, to avoid disappointment. James let out a shaky breath and Steve’s hand landed on his knee, squeezing it in comfort. James smiled quietly, without turning towards him. He narrowed his eyes like a cat, enjoying the contact while it lasted.

His headache was not too bad at that moment; at least, not as bad as it had been in Nick Fury’s house. God, had it hurt in that damn room. Too many memories, too many things he had to keep in mind to pass the test. And that question; _how did you escape?_ He had thought, _I know this. I_ remember _this_. But that was just... how could that be possible? Why did he have this memory of a scrawny boy opening a passage in a wall? He massaged his eyelids with his fingertips. Why did that memory pop up into his head at the mention of an escape? Another shaky breath.

“Everything is going to be fine,” Steve whispered in his ear as the curtain lifted and the first movement started, and James really wanted to believe him.

The music was beautiful.

James couldn’t think of another word to describe it. The flute opened, a clear warbling, like a nightingale raising its head after a long winter. And then the violins joined, fast and harmonious, filling the space like an embrace. It was all there, the colors, the contrasts music could produce, the way he was able to identify a leitmotiv, knowing it was going to be reproduced again inside the ballet. It took his breath away. He _knew_ things. It struck him like a punch to the gut. He knew the instruments, the oboe and the clarinet and the different scales the violins were working on. He gaped in surprise. He _knew_ how to play one. A violin. He could recognize the tension in the fingers of the first violin, the vibratos, the staccatos, everything was astonishingly familiar. But... when? How?

Steve brushed his elbow and James almost jumped out of his skin. His head snapped towards him, and he met Steve’s apologetic smile with what must have been a completely flabbergasted expression.

“Look,” Steve whispered gently, pointing to the opposite row of balconies and handing him a pair of opera glasses. “There she is.”

James tried to smile in thanks, then aimed the glasses towards the balcony of the Dowager Empress. He studied her for a while, ears full of a melody he could feel in his bones. She loved it too, he knew it. Fury had said that the Empress loved the Russian Ballet, but James… James _knew_ it. The Empress Marie loved music. She could play the piano flawlessly and she had been an impeccable dancer in her youth. He knew it. He couldn’t remember if he had read it in any of the books or the letters Natasha had given him, but… He licked his lips, then nibbled at the lower one. He kept looking at her through the glasses, and there was a part of him – something that pulled at his stomach, squeezing his gut in a breathtaking grasp – that was desperately trying to recognize something of himself in her. Were her eyes the same greyish blue? He couldn’t tell in the dim light coming from the stage. Did she have a dimple in her chin, as he did?

He lowered the glasses when his hands started shaking too much and handed them back to Steve without looking at him, before going back to watching the ballet, fingers closed in painful fists in his lap. Steve’s left hand curled protectively around his – James’ breath hitched. Steve’s hand had been nestled so naturally in his when they danced just the night before, James’ arm around his waist. They’d been so close their chests almost touched. If he concentrated enough, he could still feel Steve’s lips pressing at his hairline.

He blinked out of his reverie and turned back towards the stage. The music had just stopped, only the flute singing its song, while on the stage a dancer pretended to play with a fake one. James tilted his head. It was a lovely scene; a fair in the thriving center of a city surrounded by mountains. There was fake snow and stalls and people – le corps du ballet – laughing and cheering silently, buying pastries, playing with colorful balloons. _Maslenitsa_ , he thought. It looked like it. The cheer, the clothes; he could almost smell the _bliny_ if he put a lot of effort into it. The man wore a tall hat, black and white, shaped like a series of cylinders, one slightly smaller than the other, a huge blue cloak was draped covered in stars was draped over his shoulders. He waved a long wand and, on a smaller version of a theatre – _Teatr' zhivykh' firur'_ was written in big block letters on the top – the deep cerulean curtain opened. There were three marionettes there – no, they were human. Dancers, of course, but… they laid half suspended, like puppets. The Magician – the Charlatan, the program said – waved his wand, and one by one they woke up, suddenly animated by a mysterious force. At that, the music reprised abruptly and, still hanging from an invisible support, they started _dancing_. Their legs moved in time with the music, fast and precise, without hesitation, without failing. James moved to the edge of his seat, transfixed.

It was… flawless.

_“Flawless,” said the cold voice of the man. “Absolutely perfect.”_

_“But sir.” Another voice, like the squeaking of a mouse._

_“Look at him, Doctor.” The man pointed at the Soldier, perfectly balanced on the tightrope, arms outstretched, eyes pointed straight ahead towards the target on the other side of the room. There was a throwing knife right at the heart of the paper figurine. “He’s been still for hours now. On a tightrope. Throwing knives in ballet shoes.”_

_“What about moving targets?”_

_“This was a patience exercise, Doctor. We added the targets to spice things up.”_

James winced, breath hitching in his throat. Damn. He didn’t need that. Not now. His damaged mind needed to be clear. He bit the inside of his mouth to keep it real. Pain kept everything real. He looked down at his hands and noticed that he had started to tear the program into pieces. He stopped abruptly and turned towards Steve, feeling guilty. He had given it to James, and he had ruined it. But Steve didn’t seem bothered by it. For some reason, he was shushing Natasha, mildly irritated by her attempts to talk. James tried to catch her gaze to ask her a silent question, but if she noticed, she didn’t respond.

James nibbled at his lower lip, eyes moving fast from Steve’s hands, to his own, then back on the stage. He could do this. The tableau was moving and the scene changed. There were monsters in the air. Black nightmares with yellow eyes riding broomsticks against the night sky. One of them cried fire, blood drooling from its mouth. James’ heartbeat hastened. A door where a demon stood guard slammed open and one of the marionettes – Petrushka, supplied a voice in James’ head, he knew this, but how? – was kicked in by the Charlatan. He laid on the stage, face down, gloved hands trembling. James pressed his fingers against his eyelids.

_“He took more than we expected.”_

_He felt numb. He felt boneless. He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know who he was. The Soldier, they called him._

_“Is he obeying?”_

Petrushka got up, the music rising in a jingle of clarinets, and waved his arms, up and down, up and down, alternatively, as if trying to slap an invisible enemy. The Charlatan, the demon watching his door, the portrait of his master on his night-sky wall, dotted with stars, haunted by ghosts.

_He was throwing himself against the restraints, against the door, against the walls. No, no he wasn’t, he was just lying there, like a puppet with its strings cut. But he had. He had fought back. He had–_

_“We’re working on it.”_

_He wanted to obey. Last time he disobeyed, they kept him in a dark room for so long he had gone crazy from the loneliness. The ghosts. They breathed in his ears. They hid in the darkness. But everything was darkness. They didn’t need to hide anymore._

_Give me something. Give me anything. Even a beating, just to know I’m still in the world._

_“Hey, Petrushka, you earned your dinner.”_

_They pushed in a tray through a cat flap._

_The Soldier was grateful._

“I’m not coming outside with you.”

Steve’s angry hiss dragged him back to reality. He suppressed a groan, head pounding, and tilted his head back in time to watch the silent argument that was happening between his two companions. Natasha looked particularly frustrated.

“Steve,” James murmured, still feeling dizzy and nauseous. He reached out with his hand and Steve grabbed it.

“You okay?” he asked, his attention completely diverted towards him.

James curled his fingers around Steve’s. _Yes_ , he wanted to say. _Just hold me. Hold me like you did last night_. But he merely nodded and, as if guided by the Pied Piper of Hamelin, he turned back towards the music, the stage, and the strange incantation. The tableau had changed again – how much time was he losing every time he fell into one of his memories?

Everything was painted in violent tones – yellows and oranges and purples. The Moor was playing with a coconut; fighting with it, worshipping it, and lusciously lying on a triclinium, dancing around, rolling on the wooden floors. Suddenly, the door opened and the Ballerina tiptoed in, trumpet in a hand, pretending to play.

Jeté, performed the Ballerina.

_Jeté, performed the Winter Soldier._

Pas de Bourrée. Tendu. Glissade. Tendu. Jeté. Jeté. Relevé et pirouette. Jeté. Jeté. Relevé et pirouette. Jeté. Jeté. Relevé et pirouette.

Hands on the waist of the Ballerina, possessive, open palms against her stomach.

Developpe. Grand battement.

She turned, en pointe.

_He turned, en pointe._

_Arabesque._ _Pirouette. Tendu. Pas de Bourée. Pirouette en arabesque._ _Developpe. Pirouette._ _Jeté. Petit jeté. Pirouette. Jeté. Pirouette. Petit jeté. Pirouette. Jeté. Pirouette. Jeté. Pirouette, Jeté. PirouetteJeté. Pirouettejetépirouettejetépirouettejetépirouettejeté._

Pas de chat.

Developpe. Pas de chat.

And she let herself fall. The Moor caught her.

James thought, _Nobody caught me_. _I fell, and they dragged me back on my feet_. Again. Again. Again.

_You won’t break, Soldier. You are made of metal and ice and blood._

He was dancing, no he was shooting. There was a man with a bag on his head and he had shot one, two, four, six times; the blood had painted his white ballet shoes red. He wore black from that moment on.

James ran a hand across his forehead; it was cold and damp and he was shaking. Steve’s hand was holding his right, but it wasn’t enough, _he_ was not enough.

The _Maslenitsa_ was back on stage. The joy of the carnival, the traditional dances and the balloons and the carousels and the joy, and the trumpets announcing the end of the Great Lent, soon, very soon. But James was trapped in his mind; he couldn’t focus long enough to distinguish what was now and what was then, and snow had started falling on the stage, no, in his head, no, on a peak in the Urals.

His finger was ready on the trigger. He was watching through the scope, sprawled on a protruding rock, hidden in the dead bushes. But the music, the music, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He had to open his eyes. He tried, but a demon was dancing, face a terrifying mask, eyes red, bloodshot, horns on his head. It was a mirror. It was him. He could see himself in the reflection of his rifle. Oh, his weapon, so well kept, it shone eerily in the moonlight. He was a monster. He was a demon.

Petrushka appeared on stage, his red cheeks stark against his white face. The blond man had a target on his back. The drawing of a shield.

The Moor ran after Petrushka, sword swinging aimlessly. The Asset hadn’t taken aim either, the first time, just grazing the man’s side, and the Moor’s weapon brushed Petrushka’s checkered trousers.

The Moor took a serious swing at Petrushka with his scimitar. He toppled, but managed to wriggle away. The Winter Soldier shot properly, and the bullet hit its target in a thigh.

Reload. Lift the scimitar.

The Moor hit Petrushka right in the head. The Moor was better than the Asset. But he had time.

The Winter Soldier shot a third time, shoulder, reload. The fourth time, the bullet penetrated the guts of his target.

Petrushka fell in the snow. So did the target.

James blindly grabbed the opera glasses, his right palm sweaty inside the satin glove. He pressed the eyepiece against his eye-socket so violently he felt pain. He had to see his face. He had to see Petrushka. The Asset focused his gunsight on the center of the stage and there, hands pressed against a bleeding wound, trying so desperately to slow down his inevitable demise, the horrified eyes of Steve Rogers stared back at him.

Blankness.

It all happened like waking up from a deep sleep, one where the dream feels eerily real. One second he was so deep inside his head he couldn’t find a way out and he couldn’t distinguish what was real from what was fake. The next, he was back at the Opera Garnier, sitting on the edge of his cushioned seat, right hand holding the glasses like half of the audience.

He didn’t even wince when he got back to Paris, November 1930.

He lowered the glasses and nodded absent-mindedly to whomever was asking him in hushed tones if everything was okay.

Now he remembered.

He remembered everything about being the Winter Soldier. He remembered every killing, every cut throat, every shot, every dagger in the guts, every poisoning. He couldn’t say he remembered every name, because most of the time, he wasn’t told. But every face. Oh, he remembered all of them. And now he knew, one hundred percent, who those ghosts were in his mind. Most of them, at least. He breathed in, then breathed out. He felt numb. He felt emotionless, shell-shocked, like a soldier who stood too close to an exploding grenade.

Steve’s hand found his – why did he keep losing his grasp? – and lifted it, almost to his lips. He had taken off his gloves, and as James – was he James? – looked at Steve’s fingers intertwined with his own, he could only see them red with blood.

“Come on,” Steve said, a little smile on his lips, something else in his eyes. “I guess it’s time.”

The music had stopped.

They stood up and Natasha tried to intercept Steve, steely eyes that wouldn’t meet James’.

_Oh._

He smiled, bitterly, and the reason for her shifty behavior became obvious.

_She knew._

Steve shook his head and dragged James out. He followed, ears ringing, blood pumping so slowly in his veins he could hear the beating of his heart, slow as a reptile’s. He followed. He complied. They walked along the upper circle, surrounded by opulence and chatter. James knew he had to leave, but he couldn’t move independently. He could only follow. He could only comply. Every time he blinked, Steve’s horrified face appeared in his mind, the blood on his hands, pouring out of his wounds like a river in a flood.

“Wait here just a moment,” Steve said, almost contrived. “I’ll go in and announce you properly.”

James nodded again, eyes downcast, but then Steve hesitated, right there, in front of the door to the private balcony of the Dowager Empress. He turned and their eyes met, and James just stood there, finally looking at him, finally able to stare into Steve’s eyes without hurting.

And wasn’t that unfair?

Wasn’t it cruel that now that he could, he wouldn’t be able to do it anymore? Because what kind of monster could live with the fact that they had watched, unimpressed, as the only person who ever mattered bled to death in the snow?

_The only person who ever mattered._

He took in a breath. There was something else, something he couldn’t grasp, something from before. Before the Winter Soldier, before the facility, before everything. There was something in those blue eyes, so clear, so sincere, so sad. Something that went back to those dreams he had, with the three girls and the dog who wasn’t Pooka and the laughter. But he couldn’t… It was just out of his reach.

“Yasha,” Steve said, Sokovian slipping out by mistake. “We’ve been through a lot together and…” He paused, and James kept looking at him, kept searching. “I just wanted to…” He stopped again, words failing him, and James waited, and waited, and waited some more. He would have waited a lifetime or several of them, but Steve shook his head and the moment broke like glass. “Good luck. I guess.”

James nodded again, curtly, because, clearly, he wasn’t able to do anything else.

Steve turned towards the door with his sad eyes and his sad smile, and knocked before easing himself in and striding inside, all poise and self-confidence. He pushed the door back, but the lock failed to click and it remained ajar. James stepped forward, almost instinctively, to close it, but through the crack he could see Steve’s back reflected on a wall mirror. He hesitated, hand on the deadbolt.

“Please inform her Imperial Highness, the Dowager Empress, that I have found her grandson, the Tsesarevich Yakov Yur’yevich,” Steve said. “He’s waiting to see her just outside the door.”

A voice he didn’t know – a bodyguard’s, presumably – came dark and deep, somewhere on the right. “I’m very sorry young man, but the Dowager Empress will see no one.”

James breathed in, then out.

“You may tell that impertinent young man that I have seen enough Princes Yakov to last me a lifetime.”

That voice. James frowned. That _voice_.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I wish to live the remainder of my lonely life in peace.”

James leaned against the threshold, forehead almost pressing against the precious woodwork. There was something… familiar in that voice. He focused on Steve’s back shifting in the mirror.

“Your Highness, I intend you no harm. My name is Steve Rogers.” He hesitated. “I used to work at the palace.”

James blinked. Was this… was this a lie? _Steve doesn’t lie_ , his mind supplied. But then… _I used to work at the palace_. Why had he never said so?

“Well, that’s one I haven’t heard, I must say.”

A shuffling of skirts, the soft sound of a chair dragging on the carpet.

“Wait, don’t go, please, if you’ll just hear me out.” Steve’s tone was getting panicky, frustrated.

He was usually good under pressure. Why was he so flustered?

“I know what you’re after. I’ve seen it before.”

“But if Your Highness will… just listen.”

“Have _you_ not been listening? I have had enough. I do not care how much you have fashioned this boy to look like him, sound like him, or act like him. In the end, it never is him!”

James closed his eyes, right hand curling around the handle just to stay upright. Natasha should have gone inside. She was a better liar. Steve was messing up the good work they had done up to that point. But Natasha knew. She knew who he was for real – the Winter Soldier, the Fist of HYDRA, he will always be nothing more – and at that point she must have been on her way to call in Fury and all his firepower. And Steve... Steve had never wanted this. He had never wanted to con this old lady into believing a wretched soul like him could be the lost prince.

“This time it is him!”

James’ eyes widened. A shiver ran down his spine. The desperation in Steve’s words, the certainty. But he never– It wasn’t–

A pause.

Then the Dowager Empress spoke, more glacial than ever. “Steve Rogers. I’ve heard of you. You’re that forger raised by wolves, who fought a lost cause that wasn’t even yours. They called you The Captain.”

In the mirror, Steve’s broad shoulders stiffened. “Your Highness,” he articulated, anger simmering under the title. “We’ve come all the way from Sokovia just to see you-”

“And others have come from Timbuktu.” The sharp answer came like a stab to the neck. _Well, maybe they_ were _related_ , James thought bitterly.

“No, it’s not that, it’s not what you think.”

“How much pain will you inflict on an old woman for money?”

 _He didn’t want to._ James thought, desperately. _He didn’t want to do this. It isn’t his fault. It isn’t his plan. It was me and Natasha._ He wanted to burst inside, but he was frozen on the spot.

“But he is Yakov, I’m telling you, he’s the tsarevich. If you’ll only speak to him, you’ll see!”

But it was a word too much.

The door slammed open, and James stepped back as the considerable bulk of Steve almost fell into his arms. They were still for a moment, Steve staring at the door in shock.

“That went well,” James said weakly, finally finding his voice.

Steve ran a hand over his face and turned to get back in, but this time, the door was locked shut.

“Let me just... ” He tried pushing and pulling and knocking aggressively.

“Stop it, Steve,” James said quietly, eyes darting up and down the corridor.

“No, if she would just listen to me…”

“Stop,” he said, more sharply, and Steve stopped, turning towards him, eyes wide in disbelief. “I’m sorry,” James added, because it seemed like something he should say. Steve and Natasha had just lost ten million rubles after all.

“What? No. Listen, you are…”

“Steve.” James licked his lips. “We’ll get you and Natasha the money some other way.”

Steve looked out of his mind in shock. “No,” he said again, stepping back from the door. “No, look it may have started out that way, at least for Natasha, but everything’s different now, because you really are Yakov, you _are_.”

James gaped at the firm belief in those words, then laughed nervously, fingers twisting in his hair. “I am pretty convincing, but I didn’t think you– ”

“I never thought you were him, before. But then you said… and Bekka, and…” Steve put his face in his hands, taking in deep breaths.

His hands.

Red with blood.

James blinked. What was he still doing here? He had to leave. He had to leave right now. Natasha must have told Fury by that point; they must be close. He had to go back for Pooka and disappear. He turned on his heels.

“No, no, wait.” Steve suddenly grabbed his right arm. James yanked it back instinctively, then swirled and raised his left arm and… and he stopped. He stopped a second before landing a hit on Steve’s perfect teeth.

James looked at his fist in horror. He lowered his arm.

“Listen to me.” Steve seemed uncaring of the sudden outburst, unaware of the danger. There was urgency behind his words, as if he desperately wanted to tell him something. He looked almost feverish. “When you spoke of the hidden door of the wall opening and the little boy…”

But James wasn’t listening.

He almost hit Steve. Oh God, not again. James could see him lying in the snow, blood everywhere – he had shot him, he had shot him four times. He had watched him bleed out through his scope, he had walked away, persuaded that the job was done. He had gone back to his handlers, debriefed, then he had–

But no, not that time. That was the time he snapped. He malfunctioned. Tried to run. Choked a technician. Was thrown inside his cell. _How is he malfunctioning?! He has never malfunctioned a day in the last ten years, he is_ perfect _._ Poor maintenance. Too much time in the field. Overuse. _Then put his fucking brain in a blender again!_

“Listen to me, that was…”

_How is he malfunctioning?! He has never malfunctioned a day in the last ten years, he is perfect. Then put his fucking brain in a blender again! He should be kept from the battlefield for a while. He is too precious, General. He doesn’t belong on the front lines._

_He’s just screaming, sir, we don’t know what to do, we heard the screaming and we ran here. He is never supposed to be alone! Feodorov was supposed to take him from his room to the lab, but he said you agreed it was just a short way and he has been stable enough lately… You are just a bunch of incompetents! Just seize him! I have to inject him, just seize him! Prep him. Mental Implantation Procedure: three, two, one. Wipe him and start over._

_Flawless. Absolutely perfect. Look at him, Doctor. He’s been still for hours now. On a tightrope. Throwing knives in ballet shoes. What about moving targets? This was a patience exercise, Doctor. We added the target to spice things up._

_He took more than we expected. Is he obeying? We’re working on it._

_Hey, Petrushka, you earned your dinner._

Too many voices. Too many voices.

_Listen to me._

_Wipe him._

Too many voices.

_Listen to me._

“Shut up!” he exploded.

Steve looked queasy with guilt. James pressed the heels of his hands against his sockets until he saw stars.

“Yasha please. You have to know the truth.”

“No! I don’t want to hear about anything I said or remembered!”

_It’s all lies, all lies, all lies. I killed you. I shot you in the snow. I complied._

_Flawless. Absolutely perfect._

_The Fist of HYDRA._

_The Winter Soldier._

_Ya gotov otvechat'._

“ _Bucky_. Bucky, please.”

That name again.

His arms fell limp at his sides. He raised his gaze to Steve slowly, oh so slowly. Strands of shorter hair fell over his forehead, springing free from the pomade. Steve looked devastated.

James looked right through him.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  \- Votre boisson = Your drink.  
> \- Merci = Thank you  
> \- Garçon = (in this context) Excuse me, sir.  
> \- Oh no, Madame, je suis desolée = Oh no, Madam, I am sorry.  
> \- Vous éclipserez l’étoile = You will outshine the star.  
> \- Ya gotov otvechat' = Я готов отвечать - Ready to comply.
> 
>  **Footnotes:**  
>  The legend about the bistrot is a real thing. Well, linguists everywhere would gut me, clearly, but it is a very widespread myth. :p
> 
> All that stuff about Picasso is true *cringes*.
> 
> A Podpolkovnik is a military rank that corresponds to lieutenant colonel.
> 
> The _Hommage à Diaghilev_ , a tribute of four ballets organised firstly in New York, was actually staged in 1979 to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of Sergei Diaghilev's death. [Here](https://www.nytimes.com/1979/03/04/archives/a-diaghilev-celebration-a-diaghilev-celebration.html) you can find an article from the archive of the New York Times that talks about it. Sergei Diaghilev was an art critic, patron, ballet impresario and founder of the [Ballets Russes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ballets_Russes), mentioned in Anastasia, an itinerant ballet company based in Paris that performed between 1909 and 1929 (yeah I know, I was so mad when I found out about this discrepancy with the story, ugh) and probably the most influential ballet company in the Twentieth century. [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Uj592AqDd0&t=2347s&ab_channel=Jos%C3%A9LuisJ.L.) you can find the Petrushka staging that I describe, the one from the _Hommage_ that was staged in Nashville in 1980. Petrushka is interpreted by the greatest dancer ever, Rudolf Nureyev. I really really hope you will choose to dedicate one hour and seventeen minutes to watch this ballet, because it's a m a z i n g. The sequence of ballet steps should be, more or less, the Ballerina's solo, if I got them right watching the video (yes, I am a ballet nerd as well). Petrushka, albeit originally a stock character of the Russian folk puppetry, comparable to Pierrot, is the main character in a ballet by Igor Stravinsky. During the Maslenitsa, the Charlatan, a magician, brings to live three puppets: Petrushka, the Ballerina and the Moor. Both the Moor and Petrushka are in love with the Ballerina, but she doesn't care about Petrushka. Petrushka challenges the Moor to duel and, predictably, he loses: the Moor kills him. The ballet ends with the ghost of Petrushka waving his fists at the Charlatan and then collapsing, dying again. The parallel between the Soldier and the puppet seemed to me worth postponing a year the end of the Ballets Russes company ;) .
> 
> The Maslenitsa is a Slavic folk holiday comparable to the Western Carnival; the blyni is a sort of pancake.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the chickens start to come home to roost.

([Picture credit](https://www.rbth.com/history/330750-5-facts-imperial-crown))

*

“Mademoiselle Romanoff?”

Natasha turned towards the usher who had just called her name, averting her gaze from where Steve and James had disappeared, on their way to the Empress. God, Steve Rogers could be so stubborn.

“ _Oui_?”

“ _La liste que vous avez demandée_ ,” he said, nervously.

He was a young kid, couldn’t be more than 18, with short sandy hair and the appearance of someone who was not used to talking to beautiful rich people at galas. He had been the perfect choice. She smiled, taking the paper from his shaky hands and slipping him a generous tip. A night in society had been the perfect occasion to gather more intel. Paris was full of ex-spies and contacts she had collected during the war, and she was pretty sure that at least some of them were going to be there, given the occasion. It was the ideal moment to cash in on some debts from people who owed her. Or even just those who had been involved in the conflict, those who she could get information from in less cut-and-dry ways. So upon entering the building, she had singled out the most naïve kid she could find in the crowd of ushers and attendants, and asked him to perform a small favor. Richly compensated, of course.

“ _Merci, Monsieur._ ” She fluttered her eyelashes for good measure.

He blushed violently and nodded, before running away.

Natasha opened the folded paper with all the names of the attendees written tidily by some clerk. She scanned the list thoroughly, then, finally, smiled.

“ _Vasily_ , _ya ne mogu poverit' svoim glazam_.”

Natasha faked a broad smile, waiting for the moment when the impeccably-dressed man would turn towards her. He was an ordinary-looking man, tall and muscular, with short, light brown hair in a military cut, and dull blue eyes. He was the kind of man you wouldn’t look twice at in a crowd, and that was part of his value. He projected an aura of authority, the kind of authority that comes from physical prowess, from overpowering others. When he looked at her, he froze, taken aback and wary. Good – her presence in the French capital was not common knowledge yet and, most importantly, she could still provoke a certain fear.

He quickly schooled his expression into something more neutral. “ _Moy dorogoy,_ Natalia,” he answered, surprise in his deep voice. He automatically took the gloved hand she was offering in both of his and bowed to kiss her knuckles absent-mindedly. “What a pleasure to meet you here.”

“You make me blush, Vasily, every single time.” Her long eyelashes fluttered, and she knew that her smile looked incredibly realistic.

“Please, allow me.” He waved discreetly towards the bar, and a waiter in livery immediately approached them with two glasses of champagne.

Natasha smiled, accepting the offering.

“How come you are in Paris, Natalia?” he asked, following her when she moved without a word towards the terrace. “Last I knew, you were…” he hesitated. “…well-established in Sokovia.”

“Business as usual,” she answered pleasantly, then patted him on his chest where a couple of unnecessary medals were proudly exposed. “But what about you? Ambassador, right? Congratulations are in order.”

“Oh, don’t flatter me, Natalia.” He raised a corner of his lips. “I might think you wanted something.”

 _Gotcha_.

“About that, I have some questions about someone you might know quite well.”

It took Natasha only four minutes to corral Ambassador Colonel Vasily Karpov into a dark corner of the terrace, the broken edge of the champagne glass piercing through the starched-up collar of his white shirt. “Just so we're clear,” she whispered into his ear. “This is pressed against your brachial artery. It may be slightly dull, but I'm determined.”

Karpov growled something in Sokovian, but Natasha didn’t loosen her hold.

“Keep smiling. Once you start to bleed, you'll lose consciousness in fifteen seconds. You'll die in ninety unless someone comes to your aid. Now, we are in a very dark corner of this terrace. Lots of columns, the bell has already rung once, most people are going back for the second ballet of the _Hommage_. So, how likely do you think that is to happen? To prevent this not-entirely-unfortunate event from occurring, I'd suggest you give me the information I need.”

Natasha knew that if he could kill her, he would have. She also knew there was a capsule of cyanide somewhere in his mouth and he probably wasn’t afraid to use it. But she took a chance on his self-preservation instincts.

“The Winter Soldier is an urban legend,” he snarled.

Natasha pulled back the fabric so that the shard was pressing directly against the man’s neck. A drop of sweat ran down his temple. “We can skip this step, Vasily. I know Lukin was the head of the program, I know he was involved with Arnim Zola. I know you worked with both, and recently, I realized _what_ you’ve been working on. I need details. What did you do to the subject? Where did you find him?”

Karpov’s eyes flickered manically, clearly panicked. He was looking for a way out, but he was trapped. “The program failed. It was shut off. Zola’s dead. The Winter Soldier too. Why do you care? Who sent you?”

“You are not in the position to ask questions, _moy dorogoy_ , are you?”

The second bell rang.

“Tick-tock Vasily.”

“I found the boy,” he finally grunted, baring his teeth. “Some peasants had fished him out of the river with a sparkling cube.”

“The boy?”

“Yes, some boy, frozen in the Neva. I brought him to Zola. He was still alive. I knew he was looking for strong subjects for his experiments. And who’s stronger than a frozen boy with a still beating heart?” he spat out. “He was missing an arm, but that could be replaced. I brought him to Zola, and he worked on him with the cube.”

“Which cube?” Natasha drew blood.

“Stop! Fuck, Romanoff, I am talking, am I not? There was a blue cube with him, or at least, that’s what the fishermen said. Zola was ecstatic when I brought him both. He used the energy of the shining cube to enhance the boy. First, waking him up, then, making… improvements.”

“Did the boy tell you who he was?” Natasha’s heart was beating furiously in her chest.

“No, he didn’t remember a thing. Never did.” Karpov looked hopefully towards the doors, but the third bell did not ring. “He tried to run too many times to count at the beginning, though.”

Natasha glared at him with icy eyes. He made her sick. “How did you persuade him to give in to the experiments?”

“Persuade?” Karpov almost laughed. “Oh yes, we were very persuasive. Made a puppet out of him. Always ready to comply.”

For the first time, Natasha felt as angry as Steve Rogers must have felt for most of his life. “How?” she asked, conversationally.

“The blue cube, the Tesseract, that’s what Zola called it, was a very powerful thing. That’s probably what made the factory explode, the place where they kept him when he wasn’t active. We used that, but also whatever was needed to break him and to keep him on our side. Electrical shocks, waterboarding, sensory deprivation. We raised a nice boy. Such a pity he died. I guess the Tesseract takes what the Tesseract gives.” He was still able to put a pinch of sick pride in his words. Natasha wanted to cut his throat. She thought about Yasha – his lost expressions, his sharp sense of humor, his surprise at everything he experienced, his strong protectiveness. How much did he have to endure? How did he not completely lose his sanity?

“So the Soldier is dead?” she asked, carefully.

“As far as HYDRA knows. Most bodies in the factory weren’t recognizable. A bunch of bones, ashes.”

“What about the metal arm?”

Karpov winced, as though surprised that she knew about that. “As I said, the facility was levelled. There were plenty of metal scraps around, anything could have been his arm. Why? Does your buyer want him?”

Natasha scratched his neck with the broken glass and a drop of blood stained his pristine collar. “Who asks the questions here, Vasily?” she hissed.

He gritted his teeth, avoiding her eyes.

“Did HYDRA have anything to do with the collapsed bridge in Poland?”

Karpov looked completely lost, and Natasha had her answer before he even opened his mouth. So it wasn’t HYDRA who had sent those blue-eyed goons against them. Who, then? It couldn’t be a coincidence that Yasha had confirmed they did scientific experiments – Natasha still got goosebumps at the memory of him asking which color his eyes were – and that cube Karpov had mentioned was indeed blue and that they had used it to torture. There were still missing pieces, though.

The third bell rang and Natasha smiled pleasantly, stepping back. “It is always a great pleasure catching up with you, Vasily.”

He stayed pressed into the corner like a surrounded animal, eyeing her warily, chest heaving up and down. He didn’t dare move. Good. It meant that the Black Widow had done a good job of trapping him in her web.

“Why don’t we enjoy the rest of the ballet together?” She raised her still gloved hand, as if expecting him to offer her his arm. He did, after a moment of hesitation. “It would be a pity if your first thought was to send a telegram to your buddies in Novi Grad, wouldn’t it?”

***

Steve sat for what felt like ages on the steps outside the Opera Garnier. It had started raining while they were inside. Big, wet droplets that soaked him in seconds. He was. He was– out of options. Natasha had disappeared, with her secrets and her riddles, Bucky was… he just vanished into the crowd that had rushed back for the second ballet of the _Hommage_.

He wanted to fix it so bad. It was all his fault. He had played it wrong with the Empress and managed to upset Bucky. How could Steve have just… he was _fragile_. He was in a delicate state of mind and he had just blurted stuff out because frustration and anger had gotten the best of him. Of course the Empress would strike where it hurt the most; his past, his time with SHIELD. She was an intelligent woman, just like Natasha, used to tricks and politics and wordplay to carve a space for herself in a male-dominated world.

But he would be damned before he gave up.

He knew that Bucky must have gone back to the inn. Pooka was there, for starters, and all his stuff was there. If he wanted to make a run for it, he wouldn’t leave his dog behind. How long would it take for him to go back there by foot? One hour? Maybe less. He had no money with him, so a taxi was out of question. Maybe the rain would slow him down.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the drenched locks. He had to get to Bucky. And, even more so, he had to get the Empress to him.

And for once, Lady Luck was on his side. The doors of the Opera opened, and the Dowager Empress herself walked down the steps, one of the valets of the theater holding a big black umbrella over her head. She must have decided she had had enough of the ballet, and Steve wasn’t going to question it. His eyes darted to the car parked right in the middle of the road, the chauffeur getting out to open the door to the Empress. He ran to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel before the real chauffeur could make it back. He turned on the car and roared away, ignoring the feeble calls of the other man.

Fuck, he was kidnapping the Dowager Empress of Sokovia.

“Ilya!” From the backseat came an irritated voice he had learnt to recognize. “Slow down!”

“I’m not Ilya,” Steve said, eyes on the road, wheels moving fast on the slippery pebbles. “And I won’t slow down. Not until you listen.”

He was so going to end his days in prison for this.

He glanced at the disbelieving gaze of the Dowager Empress in the rearview mirror. “You!”

Steve took a sharp turn right, heading for the nearest bridge.

“How dare you?! Stop this car immediately! Stop this car!”

In response, Steve slammed his foot on the gas pedal.

“You have to talk to him,” he said, almost feverishly. “Just look at him, please.”

He had to fix this. Bucky deserved this. He couldn’t lose the chance to be reunited with his family just because Steve had done a poor job, not after everything that had happened to him. And... and if it meant being thrown in a French prison for kidnapping a member of one of the oldest Royal families in Europe then so be it.

He slammed to a stop in front of the inn, eyes darting up to the window of Bucky’s room. A feeble light was still on, maybe a candle or an abat-jour. There was a chance he was still there, that he hadn’t left. Steve jumped out of the car and opened the back door on the street side. Empress Marie just looked over on him, hands firmly clasped around the pommel of her cane. Steve wondered if she was planning on hitting him on the head with it if things went south. Chances were high.

Steve took in a deep breath. “I know you’ve been hurt,” he said, trying to be as tactful as possible. “But it’s just possible that he’s been as lost and alone as you.”

He thought about Bucky’s confused expressions, the way that he held onto him for dear life on the ship, the feeling of his gloveless hand against his scalp.

The Empress looked at him, impassively. “You’ll stop at nothing won’t you?” she asked, plainly.

Steve attempted a small smile. “I’m probably about as stubborn as you are.”

Whatever, he was going to prison anyway.

***

James was fucking behind schedule.

He now understood why notorious assassins did not travel with their pets.

“Pooka,” he growled for the umpteenth time, balancing dangerously on the edge of the dressing table. “Come down.”

The small dog whimpered and retreated back to the far edge of the tall wardrobe, hiding in the corner. James grabbed the side of the shutter and Pooka whined loudly as the wood creaked, threatening to snap.

“Pooka,” he snarled, menacingly.

There was a knock at the door. James froze, then brought a finger to his nose to motion to Pooka to be quiet. And of course, Pooka yelped, questioningly. Fuck. So much for feigning his absence. The door opened before he had the chance to jump down from the dresser.

“Now, that’s peculiar.”

James’ head snapped towards the door so quickly he feared for his spine. The Dowager Empress was at the threshold, still dressed impeccably for a night out, from the shiny tiara to the long, black dress of mourning, rich in velvet and lace.

James eased himself down to the floor, quickly hiding his hands behind his back. She didn’t seem to have noticed his metal one yet.

“Your Highness,” he said, trying to collect all his composure. “I apologize. I was trying…” He glanced briefly at the little dog who was now peeking curiously over the edge of the wardrobe. Traitor.

“Charming,” she said, deadpan, and James couldn’t help but smile nervously.

“So, young man,” she said, and in her words, James could hear the heavy burden of the pain she was carrying. “Who are you?”

And wasn’t that the question.

James sighed, leaning against the dresser and fumbling blindly for his gloves. Any pair would do. He thought back to that first night at the Winter Palace: Natasha proposing a crazy plan and Steve pushing back with all he had. _I guess if he’s not him, his grandmother will know,_ Natasha had said, cool and detached like she always appeared.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” he finally answered, quietly.

The Empress walked towards him, her walking stick producing a rhythmic sound against the wooden floor. “My dear, I’m old and I’m tired of being conned and tricked.”

And she sounded like it. Old and tired. James felt like that sometimes too.

“Steve didn’t want to trick you,” he said, finally managing to find the left glove, slipping it quickly onto his mechanical hand.

She lifted an eyebrow. “It sounds improbable to me that a forger wasn’t up for a con job to get a considerable amount of money.”

James shrugged, massaging his cheek. “He’s not like that,” he murmured.

He didn’t know why he felt the need to defend Steve’s actions. Or, well, he did know, but he couldn’t linger on it too much. He had to get away.

“And what about you? Are you like that?”

James smiled weakly. He knew he couldn’t conjure the charming self he had sold to Nick Fury. He was just too tired. “For a long time,” he said, then paused. “Or maybe a short one, I’m not sure. I wanted out. I wanted to run.” He licked his lips. “And then I met Steve. And he...” He swallowed a lump in his throat. “He made me want to find out who I was. He wanted that for me. Or maybe for himself. It isn’t really important.” He sagged, his head heavy between his shoulders. “It was important for him to know whether or not I belonged to a family.” He paused again, thinking about the three girls of his dreams; Ol’ga, Marija, Rebekka. “Your family. And he is important to me. So I guess it’s important for me too.”

The Empress stopped in front of him, and greyish blue eyes looked into greyish blue eyes. _How funny_ , James thought. _We have that in common. And the dimple in our chin. And the high, sharp cheekbones._ She looked at him as if she was looking for something. The truth, maybe.

“You’re a very good actor,” she said after a long look, a tone of finality in her words. “The best yet, in fact. But I’ve had enough.”

James deflated. He hadn’t even noticed he was holding his breath.

He had fucked this up for Steve. For Natasha.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She turned towards the door, sweeping past him and then... he caught a scent of something.

“Peppermint,” he said, awestruck.

The Empress stopped. “I like to indulge in some sweets while at the theater.” She still sounded wary.

James felt his eyelids flutter, colors blurring.

_“Give me some!”_

_“Grandmama gave them to me! Go eat your own candy, Rebekka!”_

“Yes,” he croaked, and images started to fall back into place, like the crashed shards of the stained glass window. So many colors, so many stories. “You used to smuggle some to me and the girls during boring ceremonies. Long operas. Oh, I know how you just hated Wagner. Who doesn’t, come on. Oh, and horse parades. Ol’ga loved them, always sat next to father for those, and he indulged her even if it was my place.” James was shaking, overwhelmed, the words flowing out of his mouth like blood from an open wound. He just couldn’t stop.

But how did it start? Oh yes, peppermint. They used to sneak into Grandmama’s rooms during the Great Lent to steal sweets. They used the servants’ corridors to avoid detection and Ol’ga whined that she was too old for this when her nightgown caught all the dust that the maids didn’t bother to sweep.

“We were never allowed to have them,” he went on. “Mama didn’t like us to eat too much sugar. Bad for the teeth.” He smiled, eyes filled with images, with faces, oh so many faces. “You always came for _Maslenitsa_ with so much candy Marija sewed them inside her pillows.” James chuckled, then felt his knees buckle. “Oh God.”

“Sit, boy,” the Empress whispered, and he opened his eyes, wobbling to the ottoman on shaky legs. He slumped beside the old woman without any grace. When had she sat down?

“It was our secret,” she said, her voice heavy with unshed tears. “How did you know?”

James huffed a teary laugh. “About Marija’s pillows? She was awful with a needle and thread. We all knew because she needed help with the sewing.” He brushed his flesh hand against his cheek and found it wet. “Bekka was so good at taking out the stitches, stealing some candy, and restitching them, that Mashka never noticed. She never noticed. Oh God, I miss them so much,” he blurted out in broken sobs.

“Oh, Yasha.” The Empress cupped his cheek and he turned towards her, nuzzling her palm, just enjoying the sensation. “My Yasha.”

He choked back a cry, closed his eyes, and leaned heavily against her shoulder, hiding his face in her neck as she whispered sweet nothings into his ear. The memories were all rushing back to his shattered mind, breaking loose like a collapsing dam. They were all there, his family, the stern sensibility of his mother Ekaterina, the rough fondness of the tsar Yuri, and James’ three beautiful sisters; Ol’ga, tall and compassionate, blunt and moody; Marija, the most beautiful of them all, calm and disciplined, but mischievous on occasion, coquettish even; and Rebekka, _shvibzik_ , little rascal, flippant and charismatic, so close in age to be almost a twin, dearest to his heart. He had loved them so much. He had loved all of them so much, and they were all dead.

How could he forget them?

He grasped his grandmother’s wrist with his right hand, holding onto her, suppressing sobs against her neck, tears dampening her precious black dress.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, voice broken. “Oh God, forgive me.”

***

Outside, in the pouring rain, Steve Rogers looked up at the window, blew a kiss, and walked away.

*

Париж, 13-го ноября́ 1930 г.

Paris, November 13th, 1930

**Royal Party Planned – Voinov Prince found?**

_La créme de la société_ have been called to the Grand Palais for tonight. It seems that the Dowager Empress of Sokovia has an announcement to make. Does this have something to do with the latest rumors coming from the East? Is it true that the lost tsarevich has been found? What could this mean? Details on page 4.

Paris Soir – November 13th, 1930

The clock at the top of the bell tower of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont struck the hour with absolute precision. It was a dark day. Drops of water fell heavily from the sky, which was covered in thick grey clouds. The Red Skull walked around the wooden table at the center of the small platform that helped the bell ringer do his job. And the bell ringer was indeed doing his job; a middle-aged, burly nobody, with muscles bulging under his too-thin shirt and glassy blue eyes glimmering in the dim light.

Saint-Étienne-du-Mont had been a sentimental choice. When the Red Skull was just Johann Schmidt, he had been an avid adept of the Master Occultist Éliphas Levi, and choosing the church Levi described so thoroughly in his masterpiece, well. Poignant. And they said he didn’t have a heart.

Zola was reading the newspaper, uncomfortably propped on a small stool, his narrow shoulders hunched. An old photograph of the Imperial Family was printed on the first page.

“Did you buy cologne, Doctor Zola?” the Red Skull asked.

The little man jumped up, glasses going askew on his sweaty nose. “My lord?”

The Red Skull tutted and tapped a finger on the paper. “We are going to a party.”

Zola’s eyes ran back and forth from the article on the lost prince to the Red Skull a couple of times, as if he was trying to connect the dots in his head. “A party?” He sounded completely lost.

“We will let the tsarevich have his moment,” the Red Skull said conversationally, almost fond, walking towards the tall openings on the side of the clock tower, his black cloak flapping in the blowing wind. “The boy always liked these kinds of ceremony. He used to sneak out to see the preparations, even when feverish from the power of the Tesseract. It burned him from the inside out. All that power. He was a lovely subject. Very receptive. I always knew he was special.”

Zola made a squeaking sound. “He kept being so,” he commented in a proud tone, as if he was the one responsible for Yakov Voinov being the ideal specimen.

“We must be grateful, Doctor Zola.” The Red Skull ran a finger along his own jaw. “Even if my plan didn’t succeed at the time, even if I didn’t manage to make Yakov Voinov the Tsar I wanted, the perfect puppet sovereign in my hands, you made up for it, at least partly.” He paced around the room. “The Winter Soldier has served his purpose for many years. He served HYDRA for many years.”

A sudden flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder interrupted him for long seconds.

“Yes, Master,” Zola nodded, then hesitated. “Maybe we could take him back to our side.”

The Red Skull smiled indulgently – oh, how the simple mind of a scientist couldn’t get rid of his creation, couldn’t give up on it, couldn’t recognize when his life’s work was a thing of the past. “Doctor Zola,” he said, raising the Tesseract in his hand. “The Soldier is the past. And HYDRA looks to the future and the future only. Why keep one head, when two more will take its place when you cut it off?”

The wind howled and Zola averted his gaze from the glowing cube, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. He would understand, one day, how science and magic could work together, be the same.

“We will let the tsarevich have his moment. Then, we will crush him. His allies are gone, or on the sidelines, thinking him safe. They have abandoned him.” He smirked, and Steve Roger’s grim face flashed on a side of the cube. “Tonight, Doctor, the Winter Soldier dies, and the future begins. Tomorrow, HYDRA marches on the world.”

***

The thing that was most striking for James – Yakov, Yasha? – was the softness of the carpet. It was silly, really. He must have known, even during his years closed in the white room or lying in the snow or engaging in undercover operations, that carpets were soft. He must have remembered it. The elaborate floral designs of the rugs that covered every surface in the blue room – his favorite, for a reason he couldn’t yet grasp – was almost hypnotic. He spent ages reading, just lying there. But the carpet of this particular room, in this particular mansion, in this particular city… God, it was so soft, like cotton candy, like clouds, like feathers.

He pressed his flesh palm against the texture, covering the elaborate design of a hyacinth. He was huddled on the side of a chaise longue, leaning against the backing with his left arm propped on the side, long sleeves and a glove hiding the metal. He had washed alone, indulging in the bath the day he used to, a lifetime ago. He had also refused to be dressed, instead asking for his things to be left on the bed as he was bathing. He wasn’t sure when his bag had been moved from the inn to the Dowager Empress’ residence, the one where they met Nick Fury just the day before. It seemed like an entire century.

Too many memories had rushed through his head the night before like a summer storm or a dam breaking, and James had let his grandmother guide him like a child. It was a relief just letting go, trusting someone else to do the work. He had loved his grandmother, loved her still. He had loved his parents and his sisters, and he tried to focus on that – the love, the love, the love. He couldn’t let guilt seep in. He couldn’t allow himself to break down completely, thinking about how they died while he didn’t. While he had survived. Survived thirteen years in the hands of HYDRA, killing for the same people who had butchered his family. He closed his eyes, exhaling from his nose. Pooka pressed her wet snout against his naked ankle, and James smiled sadly.

“Here you are.”

The Dowager Empress closed the door of the luxurious reading room. She looked tall and gracious, even in a less formal bottle-green dress and pearls around her neck. She was holding a box in her arms and shook her head slightly when James moved to get up and help her.

“Good morning,” he said, and his voice came out groggy and rough.

He cleared his throat and attempted a smile.

“Good morning to you,” she answered, sitting on the chaise longue he was leaning against.

Pooka made an inquisitive noise and the Empress quirked her eyebrows at her. The small dog yelped happily and jumped up onto her lap.

“Pooka,” James said in a warning tone.

“Leave her. She is quite cute, actually.” The Empress pet her on her little head and Pooka wagged her tail enthusiastically.

“She’s been following me around for a while.” James ran a hand through his short curls, still not used to the hairstyle.

They stayed silent for a bit, close, but not touching. He remembered sitting on the carpeted floor with his sisters, his grandma embroidering a centerpiece, and raspy music coming from a huge phonograph in the corner.

After a while, the Empress took the lid off the box and handed him a framed photograph. James smiled sadly, taking it in his hands, brushing his index finger over Rebekka’s chubby cheeks.

“I remember now,” he started, trying to keep the lump in his throat from choking him. “How much I loved them.”

The Empress reached out to caress his hair, fingertips massaging his scalp gently. He couldn’t remember her doing anything like that, ever. But pain changes people, and they had no one else in the world but each other. Maybe now it was time for more gentleness and affection, and less formality.

“You are not alone, Yasha,” she said. “And I know how you feel, because I felt it for a long time. Why them and not me?” She kept running her hand through his curls, winding them around her long fingers, knotty with age. “You shouldn’t outlive your children. It’s not natural, you know?”

He exhaled again, eyes on the photograph and leaning against his grandmother’s palm, his whole body curving towards her, starved for contact.

“But we have each other. We found our way back.”

James raised his chin, blue-grey eyes into blue grey eyes. His grandmother was smiling, and he could feel her love, her affection.

“They would not want us to live in the past,” she added, before turning again towards the box and chuckling softly. “Oh, look here.” She took out a drawing. “The picture you gave me, remember?”

James blinked and closed his gloved hand around the paper. Did he remember? It was a godawful drawing, gosh. It was supposed to be a chubby child sitting on a stool, a bow on her head and hands crossed in her lap.

“Yes,” he said as memories started to take form in the back of his head, like puzzle pieces coming together. “Ol’ga made me so mad.” He felt laughter bubbling in his chest. “She said it looked like a pig riding a donkey.” He tilted his head to look at the watercolor from another perspective, lips still upturned. “She was right,” he conceded. “But I was never the artist, that was– ” he stopped, frowning. No name came to his lips. And yet he was so sure that it was there, on the tip of his tongue. There was someone so good at drawing. It was… it was…

“Mashka was quite talented,” the Empress pointed out, oblivious to his struggle, or maybe aware of it and eager to save him any embarrassment.

Maybe that was it. Mashka. Marija. His sister. Yes, she was good with watercolors, wasn’t she? Liked to spend time in the gardens painting landscapes and flowers. It must have been her, huge blue eyes and a sweet smile, yes, that made sense. He blinked.

“She had the patience for it,” he said, trying to find confirmation in his own words. “Not like me and Rebekka,” he smirked, eyes shooting back to the photograph.

“No, you two were little rascals, weren’t you?”

The Empress sounded amused, clearly recalling mischiefs and troubles from their childhood years. It was all coming back to him: running in the corridors, Rebekka’s pretty auburn curls disappearing around a corner – hiding from her in secret passages, playing with their marbles on newly waxed floors. He chuckled, vividly remembering the cook’s expression when he found the two younger siblings face first into a chocolate cake that was supposed to be served that same evening for a state visit.

“In your laughter, once again I hear my Yuri, your dear father,” the Empress said wistfully, and she carefully moved Pooka aside before standing.

James imitated her and let her lead him towards one of the full-length mirrors that decorated the wall. She opened a wooden jewelry box with thin legs, so delicate, like an insect balancing on the surface of water. When she turned back to him, she was holding the most beautiful crown he had ever seen. His jaw went slack. It was completely encrusted with diamonds, running in parallel lines on the two main wings, framed in pearls. A central band held up a blood red ruby, over which a cross stood proudly. Underneath the complex pattern of gemstones and white gold, a velvet cap reprised the color of the huge ruby. James gaped, unable to say or do anything, and the Empress raised her arms, old bones trembling at the effort it took to bear the weight.

“But you have the beauty of your mother, Ekaterina, Empress of all Sokovia.”

She placed the crown on his head, then pushed gently against his good shoulder so that he faced the mirror. Wide-eyed, James could barely breathe. He had never seen the crown in person. He remembered portraits of his father now, even photographs, but seeing the thing itself so close, on his own head… he felt dizzy. He felt… like an imposter. This wasn’t his crown, it was his father’s. Once upon a time, a long time ago, it was supposed to be his. His prerogative. His divine right.

But now everything had changed. His father’s corpse had rotten in a ditch in the Urals; no funeral, no monument, nothing. And James– he wasn’t the thirteen-year-old tsarevich with his Sergeant’s uniform and his crooked hat. He gulped, tongue wetting his chapped lips. It was heavy, uncomfortable, the precious velvet doing little to make the metal around his forehead feel like a cage. He remembered a chair, metal bands tight around his head, cold disks pressing against his temples. His breath hitched and he looked at himself in the mirror. He raised his chin, looking for that boy in the Sergeant’s uniform. But he wasn’t there.

_Uneasy lies the head who wears a crown._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  \- _La liste que vous avez demandée_ = The list you requested.  
> \- _Ya ne mogu poverit' svoim glazam_ = я не могу поверить своим глазам - I can't believe my eyes.  
> \- _Moy dorogoy_ = Мой дорогой - My dear.
> 
>  **Footnotes:**  
>  You may have noticed that the Natasha treathening Karpov mirrors perfetly Peggy threatening the client of Angie's diner in Agent Carter 1x01. I wanted to pay a tribute to a show I really love.
> 
> Paris Soir was a very famous newspaper from 1923 to 1944. "It lacked any political agenda and was dedicated to providing a mix of sensational reporting to aid circulation, and serious articles to build prestige. By 1939 its circulation was over 1.7 million, double that of its nearest rival the tabloid Le Petit Parisien." ([Source](https://www.wikiwand.com/en/History_of_journalism#:~:text=The%20major%20postwar%20success%20story,serious%20articles%20to%20build%20prestige.))


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where all but one sort of complete the puzzle.

([Picture from Canva](https://www.canva.com/media/MADQ5PWeuIU))

*

“Well, if you don’t look all dapper.”

James turned towards the voice and raised his eyebrows when he recognized Natasha fixing her hair with a bobby pin. The window was open and she was straddling it, legs dangling, wearing riding trousers.

“You’re sneaky,” he said, not without admiration, Natasha noticed he didn’t even try to hide the metal hand, thumb lazily tucked in his waistband. One of his cufflinks was still loose, and a bright red military jacket with golden epaulettes lay on an ottoman in front of an elaborate vanity.

“It used to be my job,” she smiled, and tilted her head towards the inside.

James nodded and whistled softly. Pooka scampered to her and gave her foot a headbutt.

“You are a terrible guard dog, Pooka,” James exhaled, but seemed unbothered.

“She knows me.” Natasha closed the window and crouched to scratch behind the little dog’s ears, gaining her fair share of happy yelps and licks.

They stayed still for a while. Natasha knew that James was perfectly aware of every exit, every way he could neutralize her and run. She was pretty sure he didn’t want to act on it though. He knew that she knew, and he knew she must have been there for a reason. She wondered if he thought she had come to kill him or expose and bring him to Fury.

“You did a good job with the Empress, I guess, if you are here.”

James breathed out. “I’m sure you’ve already been briefed on the last twelve hours.”

Pooka rolled over to show her stomach, and Natasha kept petting her. “I’m sure it was child’s play for the Winter Soldier,” she said conversationally. “Didn’t need my training at all.”

If James was uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. His eyes were focused on the dog, and Natasha wondered if he regretted letting Pooka approach her. He had, after all, a strangely strong bond with the little animal. She was sure that he wouldn’t put Pooka in danger for any reason.

“I don’t do that anymore,” he said, and his voice was deep and raspy and exhausted, even more than usual.

“You remember, don’t you? That you are him.” She nodded towards the discarded jacket. “That you’re not an imposter.”

“I’m him,” James confirmed. “I remember I’m him.”

“But you are also the Winter Soldier.”

“But I’m also the Winter Soldier.”

Natasha felt like she was walking on a tightrope, suspended 30 feet over a pool full of sharks. Anything could cause her fall. She looked up at James for a few seconds, before sitting on the carpeted floor and crossing her legs. “Come pet Pooka.”

He obeyed and mirrored her. Their knees almost touched, Pooka happily sprawled out between them. He reached out with his metal hand, and Natasha smiled at the deliberate defiance of her action.

“I need you to fill in some blanks here, James,” she said, almost apologetically.

“Why?”

He didn’t sound resigned or particularly wary, but honestly, genuinely baffled, almost curious.

“Because there’s a lot at stake, and there are things I don’t know and I don’t understand, and I make it my job to know things.” She tickled Pooka on her belly and she squirmed. “So you see the struggle.”

James stayed silent and she interpreted it as permission. “Last I heard of the Winter Soldier, I was looking at Steve Rogers practically on his deathbed. It was also our first meeting. Pretty memorable.”

James didn’t even blink. So, _that_ he remembered.

“I was looking for the Winter Soldier for a man named Aleksander Lukin.”

James’ breath quivered, but he continued playing with one of Pooka’s ears, carefully avoiding her eyes.

“I hoped he would come back and finish the job.”

“I malfunctioned,” James said, almost automatically. “After shooting Steve.”

Natasha stilled and didn’t react to the choice of words. She was thinking about what Karpov had said, about how they molded this man, shaping him into a machine. The tsarevich was only thirteen when he disappeared. They had him for most of his formative years and had made him into a weapon. The fact that he had been able to snap out of was incredible.

“I was never the same after that,” he frowned. “They thought they had used me too much, put me on the front lines when they should have chosen my missions more carefully. I don’t… know why. I mean I had… I had completed so many missions before that one. I don’t know why Steve… I didn’t even know who he was at the time.”

Natasha bit her lips, thinking about Steve’s secret, thinking about how he used to work at the Palace. he had said he had been friends with the prince, but James didn’t seem to remember him. Memory was a funny thing, she thought. Clearly it didn’t come back all at once. She wondered if she should tell him about Steve, prompting his memories… But Steve didn’t want her to. He had been explicitly, painfully, clear about his self-imposed martyrdom. He didn’t want James to know. At least until his memories came back by themselves.

“It’s not like I didn’t _want_ to kill him. It wasn’t a matter of want at the time, I didn’t… I couldn’t feel that. I couldn’t even conceive it. They gave me missions, I completed them. That was it. I didn’t need reasons, there wasn’t space for discussion. But with Steve... It’s not like I got it wrong on purpose.” He paused, forefinger tracing Pooka’s snout. “But I never failed before. I had never been that sloppy with a mission. Not hitting the target right, not waiting to make sure he was really dead.” He frowned again, then smiled weakly. “I guess I had a feeling.”

 _Or a memory_ , she supplied in her head.

James looked at her with clear, honest eyes, unaware of her thoughts, and stated simply, “You know how I feel about him.”

Natasha nodded quietly.

“There was a shift in power after that. Your guy, Lukin, he took the place of a big shot, Viktor Ivchenko. He had been in charge since before I can remember. They used me sporadically after that. Even less when the war ended.”

She’d heard the name, but she never met the guy. He was from a very buried section of HYDRA, and now she knew why. He mysteriously disappeared around the same time that Lukin made Colonel. She hadn’t given it too much thought before, but now the chickens were coming home to roost. God, everything was fitting into place.

“What happened then?”

James’ eyebrows furrowed. “I guess I… I was erratic for a while, unstable. They… focused on taking back full control, on enhancing me even more. They thought if they exposed me for longer periods to the Tesseract– ”

The Tesseract. That name again.

“But I snapped, the day before meeting you. I saw Pooka and I snapped. I don’t know why. I just… she was there in the snow and they wanted to shoot her and I couldn’t… let them. She was innocent.”

 _So were you_ , Natasha wanted to say as her heart filled with compassion, but she didn’t open her mouth. She wasn’t sure absolution was what James was looking for. And more than that, she wasn’t the one who ought to give it to him.

“So I wiped out the base and I ran. And then I met you.”

A little smile appeared on Natasha’s lips. “Apparently you did a good job, because HYDRA thinks you are dead.”

He blinked confused. “I didn’t think so. The men that attacked us on the train. I thought HYDRA sent them after me.”

Oh. So he didn’t know who was really behind that. But if it wasn’t HYDRA, who?

“Did you know them?”

James shrugged. “No, I don’t think so, but they must have been there for me. They must have been there for the Winter Soldier. And their eyes... I thought they must have used the same thing they were using on me. The Tesseract energy.”

And the cube was mentioned again. What was this thing? Was it HYDRA’s secret weapon? The energy source they used for their firearms? She remembered blue jets of light, people vanishing into thin air. Steve had mentioned them when they were in Poland too.

“How did it work? Do you remember how they…” She hesitated, and her gaze fell on his metal arm that was busy pushing against Pooka’s paws in a sort of arm wrestling.

“How they made me?” He smiled and it was sad, bitter. It reminded Natasha of Steve’s smiles. “Not much,” he admitted. “Lots of pain. Like fire in my veins. A lot of burning sensations. I guess, ah, they must have irradiated me, hence the burning. I often had an IV on, even when I was closed in my room. The liquid – Zola called it the serum – was blue, like the Tesseract.” He let Pooka gnaw on his metal fingers. “I also had firearms that shot a sort of… blue laser? Zola knew the Tesseract like the back of his hand. He knew how to use it.”

Natasha took a deep breath. “Have you ever seen it?”

James hesitated. “I… yes. I think… I think I did.” He ran his right hand through his hair, then he massaged his temples soothingly, methodically.

“It was fished out of the Neva with you. Vasily Karpov brought you both to Zola.”

He visibly flinched at the name.

“You knew him?”

“Yes,” he said flatly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I remember him. But I don’t remember how I ended up in the river. I’m sorry. I don’t know why the Tesseract was with me.” He raised his gaze and focused it on Natasha. He was dead serious. “But I have never seen the Tesseract as the Winter Soldier. I must have seen it before. When I was Yakov. I just cannot… I remember it. A glowing cube. Blue. Eerie. But I… don’t know where I saw it.”

Well that was a problem. She was really hoping he could tell her something more about this Tesseract thing. If it wasn’t HYDRA who had gone after them, if not even Yasha knew who did, they were missing something vital. Nevertheless, she believed him. She believed he was genuine, she believed he wasn’t a spy for HYDRA, and she believed he wasn’t going to crush the Empress’ head like a peanut with his mechanical hand the first chance he got. Natasha shook her head and pushed her manicured index finger against James’s metal palm. He looked at her curiously, then lifted a corner of his lips.

“Don’t sweat it,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “You are a man after all.”

He smirked, then suddenly enveloped her hand in his. If she were another woman, she would have squeaked in surprise. But Natalia Romanova was no ordinary woman. She got free of his grasp much more quickly than he expected and turned the tables. They ended up grinning at each other, wide, metal palm pressed against smaller, flesh palm.

“What are you gonna do?” James asked, plates in his hand whirring lazily. She could feel the plates shift, recalibrating.

“Stick around,” she answered, and surprised herself in noticing how easy the answer came to her. “Keeping an eye on you, soldier.”

“What about the money?” He intertwined their fingers, tips pressing against Natasha’s knuckles.

Natasha paused. The plan envisaged Steve going to the Empress to graciously accept the reward, then they would split it evenly and decide if they wanted to stay together or go their separate ways. Steve had mumbled something at some point, something about Ireland, America, trying to find his old unit that had scattered around the world to avoid capture.

“He’s going to leave, isn’t he?” James said the words carefully, without much of an inflection. “I guess I was naïve to think that… What I did to him… And the, ah, the world we live in… Who I am… It’s just not possible.”

Natasha covered their interlaced hands with her free one. “No,” she said, plainly, practically, not beating around the bush. James was not a child and he knew what his role entailed. Steve knew it too. “No, it’s not, Your Highness.” Maybe she was the only one who had ever hoped that things could go differently. Maybe they were more down to earth than her. Who would have thought?

James looked at their hands, at his hand. “Just… please don’t tell him.”

Natasha bit her lower lip. “I promise I won’t.”

James looked at her, blue grey eyes so heavy with burdens, so ancient in their years of pain, and then at the uniform on the ottoman, waiting for him. “I’m where I’m supposed to be,” he said, with melancholic awareness.

Natasha looked at their intertwined hands, stark grey metal and fair, rosy skin. She thought about all the things they still didn’t know – who had sent those men? What would happen if someone recognized the Winter Soldier? Karpov was clogging a sewer in the Seine and he’d never been the smartest guy anyway, but he wasn’t the only one who had seen the man. How long would it take HYDRA to realize that Zola had experimented on the son of the Tsar for thirteen years? Had Zola known in the first place?

Steve didn’t know the half of it, and that was why he was leaving, cradling his bleeding heart, sure that it was the right thing to do. If he had known, oh, if he found out that his best friend from childhood had not only been tortured for years, but had also been made into the most dangerous spy of the civil war who had assassinated and murdered and butchered, it would shatter him. If he knew that James was the man with the metal arm who had left him to bleed to death in the snow. Oh, Hell would break loose. Wars would start. Natasha was sure of it.

She looked at James, at his sad eyes and his damaged memory and, God, she hoped he would never retrieve the memories Steve so jealously guarded. He was already dripping with guilt, as much as he tried to mask it, but if he realized that it was his best friend he had almost killed without a second thought...

They were loose cannons, both of them, destined to destroy each other and the world if either of them ever managed to complete the picture. And Natasha’s job was, once again, to play double agent. To move the pieces on the chessboard, trying to lose as little as possible, trying to protect both of them.

As horrible as it sounded, if Steve left them, if he had moved himself out of the equation, if he walked out on both of their lives, her job was going to be easier, because she didn’t have to worry about him too. As much as she would miss him – and nobody would ever know, but, boy, if she wasn’t going to miss him a great deal – he would be safe. Far from the Winter Soldier, far from Yakov Voinov and his secret identity, an alias that he never wanted but one that was certainly coming back to wreck havoc.

If Steve never found out, he would just be the umpteenth guy with a broken heart in the world – with a considerable amount of additional drama, sure, but far from any further harm. So, Natasha– Natasha was going to stay. She could be collateral damage in that. She could be the one helping out for once. Pay Steve back. In a sense, she owed it to both of them.

She lifted their hands and pressed her lips against James’ metal knuckles. “So am I.”

***

Steve felt queasy. He was standing in the middle of an elegantly furnished office. It was quite similar to Nick Fury’s in style and disposition, but less severe, less spartan. There were fresh flowers in a crystal vase on the mahogany desk and two chintz armchairs in front of the fireplace. An embroidery work lay on a coffee table with chubby legs. There were photographs scattered around – serious and portrait-like, but personal photographs nonetheless – and paintings that looked simple and homey, almost bourgeois. Girls with bows in their hair, children playing with animals, foggy ballerinas doing exercises at the bar, a garden in full blossom.

The Dowager Empress was finishing a letter, the rasp scratching of the nib of her golden fountain pen the only noise in the room. When she finished, she left the sheet to dry and intertwined her fingers, pressing an index against her lips.

Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then opened his mouth, unable to bear the silence longer. “You sent for me, Your Highness?”

He had been approached by one of Nick Fury’s men as he was entering the inn where they had left all their belongings. He had spent the night wandering aimlessly around the city, unable to sleep, unable to shake off the numb sensation that permeated every single part of his body. He had done his job. He had taken Bucky home. It was time to go. As much as he wished he could stay, as much as he cared for him, Bucky’s life was with his family. He could reclaim what was his, and it wasn’t something he could do if Steve stood in his way.

The Empress rose, walked around the desk, and one of her hands brushed the edge of a briefcase that was carefully balanced on the corner of her desk. She opened it without making a big show out of it, fast and efficient. Steve tried to school his expression into a neutral one when he recognized the ungodly amount of money arranged in even bundles.

“Ten million rubles, as promised, with my gratitude,” she said, curtly.

Steve took a deep breath. “I accept your gratitude, Your Highness. But I don’t want the money.”

_Sorry, Natasha._

The Empress smiled, but a frown was forming on her forehead, and Steve had to look away because it was identical to Bucky’s puzzled expression.

“What do you want then?”

Steve’s hand ran unconsciously to his pocket, checking that his cigarettes were there. He could feel his breath start to hitch. He thought about Bucky’s face in the dim light of the moon in their room in Dresden, and the smoke that they had shared, leaning against the radiator, shoulders almost touching. He ran his tongue over his teeth, then looked up, fighting against his emotions. Was Bucky in the building? Was he getting ready for his big debut that night? Did he remember him? Was he wondering where he was?

“Unfortunately,” he said, barely above a whisper, mind full of Bucky’s smiles. “Nothing you can give.” He bowed, quite awkwardly, then turned to leave.

“Young man,” the Empress said and Steve stopped, one hand raised towards the brass handle. “You said you used to work at the palace.”

Steve waited until she crossed to him, moving between him and the door, then nodded.

“And Colonel Fury told me his Imperial Highness the tsarevich reported that a boy helped him to escape.”

Steve didn’t answer. He just looked at her, barely breathing. The Empress was a smart woman, noble and cold like the winter of Sokovia. She was clever and intuitive, and once again she reminded him of Natasha with her sharp wit and her ability to read people better than books.

“You were the boy, weren’t you? The servant boy who got him out. You saved his life, then you restored him to me, and yet you want no reward?”

Steve wanted to tell her that he didn’t save Bucky’s life. He had pushed him right into the arms of HYDRA. He wanted to tell her that he failed to save three innocent girls and their parents. He wanted to tell her that, yes, he had been 12 at the time, but he had already seen so much and he should have known that throwing Bucky into a secret passage was not going to be enough, because he was weak and he had lost a lot of blood, and he needed… he needed someone strong, someone who would have been able to take him to safety.

But he just shook his head, because talking seemed like an impossible task.

“Why did you change your mind?”

Steve exhaled. He wanted to tell her that he had never wanted the money, that he was against the plan, that he had followed Natasha because she was the only thing he had left, that he had hated James when he accepted to act the part of the tsarevich to con a lonely old woman to get the money and disappear. But then, he had helped, he had accepted. He was as guilty as Natasha, who just wanted to escape, he was as guilty as James, who didn’t remember who he was. For so many years, after the war ended, he had just disappeared, doing work from the sidelines, lying low, while his blood boiled with the desire for a fight. He didn’t know how to live in a world without a war. He didn’t know how to exist without it. But there was no more war and no more Captain Rogers and no more Howling Commandos. They had lost and Steve couldn’t move on. He couldn’t find peace in a world that had stepped on everything he believed in. And then Natasha had come up with a crazy, immoral plan, dragging him and an amnesiac stranger halfway across Europe, and in less than ten days Steve had found something to fight against. Holding a tray and a pitchfork on a train full of revenants, he had looked in James’ eyes and he had found Bucky. He had found the boy he had failed to protect so many years before and, God, he had held him in his arms and he had thought, _This is my peace. If I can have him, if I can fight by his side until he doesn’t need me anymore, if I can make up for abandoning him, if I can give him back his life, maybe I will be forgiven when I walk to the gates of Heaven._

_If I can love him, even from afar._

“It was more a change of heart,” he fumbled, then pressed his fingers against his eyelids. “I must go.”

He walked past her, unable to look into those familiar blue eyes.

***

James was fiddling with the cuffs of his red and gold jacket, trying to set them right in a way that they completely covered his wrist. His white satin gloves kept getting in the way. They were smooth and almost too slippery, and he couldn’t help but worry about people finding out about his goddamned metal arm. Couldn’t HYDRA enhance him with something less conspicuous? He turned the corner, walking towards the staircase, when he heard the scuffling noise of someone engaging the steps with too much enthusiasm. He raised his gaze and froze.

“Steve,” he said, before he could stop himself.

And Steve froze too, mouth agape, and they looked at each other for a long moment. James felt his heartbeat increase exponentially. He nibbled at his lower lip, unable to be the one to open his mouth again. Steve was in front of him, a brown, second-hand suit hanging all wrong from his body.

“James,” he said back, mirroring him, and James furrowed his brows, because for the first time, that name sounded wrong on Steve’s lips.

He had called him in another way, the night before, while he was so wrapped up in his mind that he was losing control of everything. He had called him in another way, on the ship, when Steve saved him from his nightmare. But he couldn’t remember… He wondered if Steve would have called him differently if he had showed himself like the Angel of Death after shooting him in the guts on a mountain in the Urals. He gulped.

“Did you collect the reward?” he asked, averting his gaze.

“My job is done,” Steve answered, curt and concise.

James wondered if he knew, if Natasha had told him, after their meeting that morning. She had said his secret was safe with her, she had said she would stick around until things were settled, but… she owed Steve much more than what she owed James.

He attempted a quick look, but Steve’s expression was neutral, if tired. _Do you hate me?_ He wanted to ask. _Do you know I almost killed you?_

His mouth opened to say something, anything. _I’m sorry. I am not for you. I don’t even know what I am doing here. I should disappear. I’m putting everyone in danger. I just need to stop for a second. Take a breath. Let someone else keep it together_.

“Young man.” The old majordomo came rushing towards them, clearly shocked that a hand-me-down clothed peasant was on the stairs with the Tsesarevich who was pompously dressed in a dashing parade uniform with gold embroidery, ready for his debut. “You will bow and address the Tsesarevich as ‘Your Imperial Highness’.”

James felt his cheeks turn hot, then he instinctively opened his mouth. “No, that’s not nec– ”

But Steve raised a hand, a small, sad smile on his lips, and bowed.

And James’ brain shut down.

_“Look at this runt! Too dumb to know he’s beat!”[1]_

_The backdoor of the stables yanked open and Yasha furrowed his brows, peeking from behind his pony’s box. There was someone in the stable. Several someones. He flinched when he heard the sound of a punch landing. This was not right. He stepped out, abandoning the apple that he had been feeding to the little horse. His father had told him that a real man ought to take care of his own horses and that was what he was doing. Well, he may have run away from an extremely boring French lesson, but. He walked quietly, careful not to make any noise. There were three boys crowding a smaller one against a corner. He was thin and scrawny, all sharp elbows and knobby knees._

_“S’alright,” snarled one of the bullies. It was one of the stable boys, dirt on his cheeks and a flop cap on his head. “I can spend all day provin’ it to him if I have to. Not like I got anything else better to do.”_

_The other two laughed when the small one raised his fists, defiant. The stable boy cracked his knuckles, but when he tried to hit, Yasha stepped in._

_“Hey!” he yelled, straightening his shoulders._

_The three boys turned towards him. Stable boy snickered. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”_

_“It is my business,” Yasha shot back. You will be my subjects, he wanted to say. And I cannot tolerate – how did the History teacher call it? – civil wars. But he bit his tongue. “You shouldn’t bother little kids,” he said instead, because it was definitely true, and when Stable Boy tried to jump him, he closed his hand into a fist and socked him as hard as he could on his ugly nose._

_Thing was, Yasha had never punched anyone, so he didn’t expect it to hurt this bad. He was still shaking his hand in disbelief when he perceived someone approaching from behind, but before he could react, he spotted out of the corner of his eye the small kid hitting the second bully with the lid of a barrel straight to his nape._

_Yasha looked at the third boy defiantly. “Want your share?” he baited, but the coward growled something indistinct and dragged away his friends._

_When they disappeared, the small kid threw the barrel lid onto the ground, then made a face. “I had them on the ropes,” he mumbled, sitting on a pile of hay._

_Yasha, who had no idea what that meant, flopped down on a stool. “I know you did.”_

_The boy looked at him sideways, then reached out with his scraped hand. “Stepanya Iosifovich Rodhzers.”_

_Yasha grabbed it. “Yakov Bekkhan Yur’yevich Voinov.”_

_Stepanya’s jaw fell._

_Before any of them could do or say anything, Yasha’s nanny, Margaretta, rushed inside the stables. “Your Highness!” She pressed a hand against her breast, clearly relieved. “Here you are.” She marched towards him, then noticed the scrawny, dirty boy. “Young man,” she said, sternly. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know who you are talking to?”_

_Stepanya shook his head furiously, blush creeping on his face and neck. “I-I’m sorry, I…”_

_“You will bow and address the Tsesarevich as ‘Your Imperial Highness’,” she snapped._

_It was Yasha’s turn to turn to go red. “Oh no, Margaretta, it’s not necessary, please.”_

_But Stepanya had already bowed, all lanky and clumsy, nose almost touching his knees._

_Margaretta shook her head in displeasure. “Now, everyone back to their work,” she ordered, motioning Yasha towards the main door. Before crossing the threshold, he turned back and Stepanya was still there, hands in his pockets and a curious grin on his lips. He shrugged with one shoulder. Yasha smiled._

James blinked out of his reverie and a wave of dizziness made him lean heavily against the railing, his hand clutching the shiny wood so strongly that he felt it crack under the pressure.

“Your Highness?” came the voice of the butler from afar.

James blinked again, the profile of the objects turning back into focus, slowly. He could hear his own blood rushing in his veins.

“S-Steve,” he babbled.

“Your Highness.” The old man came into the periphery of his view and James straightened up, his eyes rushing to look for – oh God, to look for _Steve_.

He knew him.

He remembered everything.

He grabbed the butler, probably too forcefully. “The man. Who was here. Where…?”

He looked at him with wide eyes, appalled. “He just went away. One second ago. You saw him. Do you feel all right, Your Highness?”

James rushed towards the door, feeling like a madman. Steve, Steve, Steve. He remembered him. It was all wrong, all his life, the last ten years of his life, they had taken away everything he ever knew, everything he ever loved: his parents, his sisters, _Steve_. And Steve had come back to him, they had found each other, and wasn’t that a twisted Fate? They had found each other and they had crossed Europe together and why didn’t Steve say anything to him? Why didn’t he tell him who he was? He slammed the door open, ignoring the footmen, ignoring the guards, and he ran into the garden. Steve, his Steve, his best friend, the scrawny little kitchen boy who had meant everything to him when they were too sickly and frail to be normal kids. The boy who had pushed him into a secret passage to save his life. That boy was the man who had brought him back to his family. And God, he was the same and another person at the same time. He was huge when he had been small, he was all broad shoulders and a fucking _beard_ when he had been a tiny little thing who could fit in a chimney. But he was as passionate and angry and righteous as ever. He had those blue eyes and that straight nose, too big for his face, and that smile that put dimples on his cheeks.

And this version of himself, this patched up, hybrid, Frankenstein version of _Bucky_ – Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, always Bucky for Steve, always – had managed to love him as he always did. In every way this faulty, broken individual was capable of love.

“Steve!” he yelled, closing his hands around the iron gates of the mansion. “Steve!”

But he wasn’t there.

He was gone.

Bucky pressed his forehead against the cold metal and closed his eyes, and behind his eyelids the Winter Soldier shot four bullets into the guts of Stepanya Iosifovich Rodhzers, six years old, who was sitting on a pile of hay in the Palace stables.

Bucky pressed his head against the bars more firmly until it hurt, until he could feel something that wasn’t guilt.

“Your Highness?” The butler sounded hesitant, wary, even.

Bucky wondered if he thought he was crazy. If he thought the Empress had been tricked into thinking he really was the tsarevich when he was just an imposter, an actor, a money-driven cheat. He released his grip on the iron bars and turned around, composing himself.

“Yes.” He ran a hand over his face. “I am sorry,” he mumbled, walking past him, facing the mansion, the cloudy sky a suffocating blanket above them. He thought of Steve, small and always feverish, and he thought of Steve, bleeding out in the snow, and he thought of Steve, their bodies pressed together in a waltz. Then he looked at himself, blood red uniform and shiny shoes, back from the dead, the heavy burden of the Imperial Crown on the head of an exiled prince, the metal Fist of HYDRA covered in silk.

_We have lived so many lives._

He took a deep breath, nausea shaking him to the core. He could hear the hiss of the bullets before they hit their target, before they hit Steve, his best friend, the other part of his soul. He had shot those bullets. He had let him bleed out in the snow. He hadn’t even hesitated. He hadn’t even recognized him, not even now, not for days and days and days. Steve was gone. And it was for the better.

_I will not take another life from you, my love._

“I am ready,” he said.

***

Steve closed the door of the inn room behind him and leaned heavily against it, closing his eyes. He exhaled. It was not as if he had many things to collect, and a part of him wanted to just drop dead on the bed and sleep for three days. But he needed to get away. He had enough money to take the first train and just… go. Just go. Wherever. It wasn’t important. He couldn’t be there anymore.

He almost jumped out of his skin when he finally noticed that he wasn’t alone. “Natasha! For fuck’s– what are you doing here?!” His voice was higher by a couple octaves.

She was sitting at the spartan desk, propped against the wall, near the window. She was in travelling clothes; men’s trousers and a decidedly masculine jacket.

“Following the plan,” she said, all innocent.

Steve groaned. “I didn’t take the money.”

It was easier to let it out sooner than later.

She rolled her eyes. “I know, dumbo. I should have gone instead of you.”

Steve stiffened. “Yes. Probably.”

Natasha’s cheeky smile transformed into something warmer, fonder, and she got up. Only then Steve noticed that Pooka was peeking out of her hood. A lump formed in his throat.

“Someone wanted to say goodbye,” Natasha said, grabbing the small dog by the scruff. “Since you are leaving.”

Steve instinctively reached for the dog, and Natasha deposited the small weight into his arms. Pooka looked up at him, curiously. She could clearly feel that something was not right.

“You know I have to,” he said, weakly, scratching behind her tiny shoulders.

“I know,” Natasha nodded.

And in that moment Steve realized. _Since_ you _are leaving_.

“You’re staying,” he croaked, disbelief seeping from every syllable. “You are staying here? Why?”

Natasha tilted her head and her red curls fell on one side like a waterfall. “Yasha could use a spy,” she said. “I can be his ears, figure out political games. We don’t know what will happen, you know, on a very concrete basis.”

Steve felt a wave of guilt hit him. He should stay. He should help. He should be the one shielding Bucky from harm. If HYDRA came for him, if the powers of Europe started to feel threatened by the return of the heir to a throne that didn’t exist anymore, if they started to fear the explosion of a new civil war… But how useful would Steve be if it did? What would he do for Bucky? He was an international fugitive, he was wanted by HYDRA, he had been one of the rebels of SHIELD. If he was recognized, Bucky could be in even more danger. And he wasn’t even counting the feelings involved. They had a connection, and it was strong, and it was wonderful and terrifying at the same time, and if someone, anyone, found out, they could use it to get to them, to get to Bucky. Steve would do anything for him. He would betray his own beliefs for Bucky. And he knew that Bucky; the Bucky he had known like the back of his hand and the new Bucky he had learnt to know, they were both dedicated to Steve, they were both ready to do anything for him as well. Bucky and Steve were a liability to each other.

“I won’t retire on a desert island,” Steve said, hoping that he didn’t sound as if he was justifying himself. “I am going to do whatever I can to protect him without being at his side. I am going to look for the remaining Howling Commandos.” He realized it was the only possible option in the exact moment in which he pronounced the words.

Natasha looked at him, and for the first time since Steve had met her, she looked genuinely sad. “I know, Steve. Nobody would blame you, anyway. Yasha wouldn’t blame you.”

“I know.” Steve’s grasp on Pooka tightened and she growled in annoyance, but not antagonistically so. “I know. Please, ah, please take care of him.”

The sadness completely evaporated from Natasha’s face, and she smiled her I-know-the-secrets-of-the-universe smile. “He’s a big boy. I told you before. But yes. I will.”

He didn’t even have the time to feel relieved before the awareness that this could be the last time he’d see Natasha Romanoff hit him like a brick. He covered the distance that separated them and crushed her in a hug. Pooka whined, very much annoyed now, and jumped out of his arms, allowing him to wrap both around her small frame. “And take care of yourself, Natasha.”

“You are such a softie, Captain Rogers,” she cooed against his shoulder, reaching up to play with the blond strands. “Are you sure this is the right decision?”

Steve let out a shaky breath. “He deserves this. And I know him. And I am afraid he could question it if I stay.”

She stepped back to look at him in the eye. “You are quite an arrogant guy, Captain. You sure you are worth more than a diamond crown?” She was smiling, but there was no malice in the teasing.

“I know I would forsake everything for him. And I know him, Nat. I know him better than I know myself, deep down. And I know you’d say thirteen years changes people, but the only thing that changed for me is that now I want him in every single way a person can be wanted. And I…” He wound a hand through his hair. His heart was pounding in his chest and he couldn’t stop, he just couldn’t shut his mouth. “We’ve always been on the same page on everything. Two sides of the same coin. It’s the same for him. I just know it. But he deserves the world, Natasha. He deserves his position and the love of his family and the grandeur of his title. He deserves happiness.” He bit forcefully on his lip and blushed furiously when he realized what he had just babbled out. _A happiness I cannot give him. Not in this life._

Natasha looked at him intently. Steve couldn’t read her. He couldn’t see past her green eyes. He had always only managed to see what she wanted him to see. “You are a sap,” she finally declared, and cupped his cheek with one hand. Then, more fondly, “I’ll take care of your boy.”

“And yourself.”

“And myself.”

She whistled softly, in that soothing way Bucky did when he called Pooka, and the dog scurried at her side obediently.

“Take care, _Stepanya,_ ” Natasha said, and walked past him, knuckles brushing against the back of his hand as she went.

When he heard the dull click of the door, he felt all his energy abandon him. He flopped onto the bed and sank his face into his hands.

_Are you sure this is the right decision?_

He thought about Bucky and his grandmother, about how dashing he looked in his uniform, even more perfect than he had looked in his soon-to-be Sergeant one, so many years before, when Steve had crowned him with his cap. Even then, his 12-year-old heart had missed a beat. He remembered bowing for him. God, he would never bow for anyone else.

_This is the only thing I am doing right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Footnotes:**  
>  The first meeting is partly taken from Captain America: First Vengeace.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick Fury [deadpan]: Isn’t it romantic. It’s a perfect ending.  
> Dowager Empress: No, it’s a perfect beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little note from Bookbee: Hey guys! Just wanted to come in before the end and say what an absolute pleasure it's been to work with Ginny for my first ever Big Bang! 😃 When I saw an Anastasia AU in the claim slides, I knew I had to have it, and I'm so happy I got it and got the chance to be a little part of this amazing fic! I hope you enjoyed the cover and the chapter banners I made 😊 I hope you enjoy this last chapter! Thank you for all your kudos and comments, they're really appreciated! ❤️
> 
> And little note from Ginny: **_Guys_**. I can't believe this is the last one. Thank you for your kudos, your bookmarks, your comments. ❤️ A huge thanks to Lillaby and to Brie, who corrected this monstrum word for word, and to Bee, who made such amazing art. Really, I can't express how grateful I am to this fantastic team. I can't even believe we managed to get to the end of this. And thank you to my best friends who helped me out so much. And, of course, to the Not Another Stucky Big Bang mods. You did an incredible work. <3

([Picture credit](https://www.etsy.com/ca-fr/listing/221536302/pont-de-paris-au-lever-du-soleil-pont))

*

The sky was a deep, dark blue, with just the memory of the sun quickly disappearing beyond the strong iron frame that held up huge glass slabs. It was so different from the frescoed vault of the Winter Palace, but the effect was just as breathtaking. Paris was a city of light, so the stars were obliterated by the electrical strings of yellow power that ran from one extremity to the other of the huge ballroom. Arches decorated the sides of the room, creating two floors that gave the architecture the impression of reaching towards the sky. People were watching from the upper balcony, and more people were dancing, twirling, and turning in waltz steps all over the marble floor. Bucky nibbled at his lower lip, gloved hand curled around a heavy red curtain that hid him and the Empress from view. They were minutes from their grand debut. Nick Fury was already on the platform, near the twin chairs – he couldn’t call them thrones. He knew that Natasha was there too, hiding in plain sight.

“He’s not there.”

Bucky winced, and the velvet fabric slipped from his hand like water. He turned towards his grandmother, an apologetic smile already on his lips.

“I know he’s not– he– ” He paused, panic seeping through him, then he collected himself. “Who’s not there, Grandmama?”

Something twitched in the Empress’ blue eyes, the deep indigo of her dress making it all the more evident. “A remarkable young man who brought you back to me.”

Bucky’s smile faltered. He lowered his eyes and took a deep breath. “No, he’s probably quite far now,” he murmured. Or at least, he hoped. He hoped that Steve was far from him, far from the horrible truth of who he was, of who they had made him into. He didn’t know why Steve decided to leave. They hadn’t really talked after his outburst at the theatre. There hadn’t been time. And the awkward meeting on the stairs, before... There was a part of Bucky, a childish, whiny part, that wanted Steve to stay. Now that he knew who he was, now that he knew who they both were. Now that he remembered him. Steve had been… he had been his whole world, together with his sisters, in the secluded life that he had lived as a child. And Steve now… he had met Steve and he had no idea who he was and he had ended up building himself back up while leaning on Steve anyway. Without knowing. All over again. And wasn’t it Fate, in some sense? Didn’t Steve feel the same thing?

“Look at them dance!” The Empress was close to him now, and she had pulled a minuscule part of the curtain aside to peek. Bucky imitated her. He could remember this being one of his favorite pastimes, observing the opulent balls from the outside, enjoying the glimmer and the splendor.

“You were born into this world of glittering jewels and fine titles,” she went on, and Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. There was a couple dancing; the dame was laughing, looking up at her partner as if he hung the moon. Bucky had to blink several times to erase the memory of the dance that he and Steve had shared at the Bal de la rue Sainte Genevieve. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Maybe it was. Everything had changed in the span of a second. He thought about holding Steve, he thought about his fast heartbeat and how he could feel it when they were so close, he thought about a dark room in Dresden and the smoke lazily floating in the air. He remembered the electricity. But, ah, that for certain could never happen, not even if Steve had stayed. And him staying, that would have made it more difficult. Maybe Steve knew this. Maybe that was the reason he’d left.

“…but I wonder if this is what you really want.”

The words registered in his brain after a few seconds.

He turned towards his grandmother, opened and closed his mouth. She was looking at him with the kind of look Natasha sported all the time, that I-know-something-you-don’t twinkle that seemed to be a specialty of strong women.

“Of course,” he blurted, almost choked up. “Of course it is,” and he wasn’t lying. He wasn’t lying. The joy of recognizing his grandmother, the delight of finding out that he was someone in this world, that he had always been a person, that there was someone who knew him and loved him and remembered him as a human being, worthy of affection, and not just a soulless machine. That had been so overwhelming, so devastating, he couldn’t even begin to describe it. “I found what I was looking for.” _Somewhere to belong_. “I found out who I am. I found you.”

And that had to be enough, right? Yakov Bekkhan Yur’yevich Voinov was supposed to be here. He was supposed to step onto that platform and take back the responsibilities that were his by divine right. He was the Tsesarevich. He had been raised to be here in this precise moment, ready to step up again.

But.

_But._

He was also raised as the Winter Soldier. An infallible killing machine in the hands of HYDRA. The ghost that nobody ever saw coming, the terror in the pupils of his targets.

_Who was he, for real?_

“Yes, you did find me,” she answered, and there was only affection in her words, a deep profound love. She raised a hand and cupped his cheek, her thumb caressing his skin, running underneath his eye, as if trying to erase all the burdens they bore. “And you’ll always have me.” _And you’ll always be Yakov Bekkhan Yur’yevich Voinov._ “But is it enough?”

Bucky looked at her and he didn’t know how to answer.

“These years haven’t been kind to you, have they, my darling?” she said, and Bucky knew that if she could take all the pain away from him, she would.

He opened his mouth. He had to tell her something, anything, to reassure her. She was an old woman who had lost so much, and she didn’t deserve to take more onto her frail shoulders. She deserved peace. But nothing came out. Nothing at all.

“Knowing that you are alive,” the Empress’ eyes filled with tears, “seeing the man you have become.” Something broke inside of Bucky. _I’m not who you think I am, I am ruined, I am rotten, I am not that boy anymore._ But maybe she knew. Maybe she felt the darkness in him, all the horrors he had committed, all that was wrong inside him, from his metal arm to the feelings he had for the wrong person. Maybe she knew everything, the way mothers do, with that wise awareness they always carry with such ease. Bucky hadn’t met many mothers in his life, but he remembered thin, blond Sarah Rogers, with her sunny smile and freckles on her nose, scolding her son and his best friend as if they were the same, as if they weren’t a kitchen boy and a prince. He remembered his own mother, who had loved him more than words could express, who had tried to shelter him the best she could from the outside world and failed so spectacularly. Maybe that had been her worst mistake; loving him so much that she unconsciously provoked his own undoing. He stopped that line of thought and shook his head. HYDRA had ruined him, not his mother. There was something missing there, something that involved his mother and his childhood and some illness and a cure, but he couldn’t… it wasn’t the moment anyway.

“All of this brings me joy I never thought I could feel again.”

He looked at his grandmother, focusing on her again, coming back to the present. She took his face in her hands and looked at him straight in the eye. They were almost the same height.

“What I am telling you, Yasha, is that you can choose. You have the faculty to choose. If you want that,” she tilted her head towards the ballroom, “or not. All that glisters is not gold. If you come back to the world, to this world, it won’t be easy. But you already know that, I know you do. And I am telling you, I can see this in you, dear, you have earned not to be burdened with this responsibility.”

Bucky’s breath hitched. “But you– ”

This was who he was supposed to be. Wasn’t it? He had to do this. He–

“Whatever you choose, we will always have each other,” she said quietly, then embraced him, slim arms curling around his body, pressing against his metal shoulder without giving any sign of distress. She must be feeling it, the coldness and the extraneity, but she didn’t say anything. She held him and he closed his eyes, exhaling against her neck, framing her waist. They were keeping each other together.

When she stepped back, there were tears welling in her eyes. “You choose, Yasha,” she said, pointing her finger on his chest. “Know that you can always choose.”

And with that, she pulled back the curtain and was gone.

Bucky focused on his breathing, taking in deep mouthfuls of air, trying to regulate the pounding in his chest. He could hear his own blood sloshing in his veins. He straightened his shoulders and walked to the curtain.

Who was he?

Who did he choose to be?

He thought about his notebook, the words he had scribbled on the ship, when he was trying to make sense of his life. It seemed so far away, but it had been just a handful of days before. He thought about realizing he had to come to terms with the Winter Soldier if he wanted to be worthy of… But no. That wasn’t it. He had to come to terms with the Winter Soldier for _himself_. Because it was a part of him, a part of his past, something that had happened to him, something that wasn’t going to disappear if he wrapped his metal arm in silk and sat on a velvet chair in front of a bunch of strangers.

How could he be Yakov Voinov and the Winter Soldier and someone else, someone new, someone he had put back together piece by piece over two weeks that had felt as long as several centuries?

Pooka’s barking interrupted the tangled bundle of his thoughts. He turned, confused. The little dog was scurrying towards a French door that was weirdly open. Bucky frowned and walked towards her. “Pooka,” he called forcefully. “Hush, what’s wrong?” But she ignored him, sticking her head out, and then the rest of her body, reaching the terrace. Bucky swore under his breath and ran after her.

“Pooka!”

He stopped at the center of the balcony, two twin staircases descending towards the gardens. In the darkness, he spotted the tiny shape of the dog making her way towards a towering labyrinth, stretching all throughout the gardens bordering the Seine.

Of. Fucking. Course.

“Pooka!” he growled, heading after her, following her hysterical barking. “What the hell did you see?”

***

The Gare du Nord was a beautiful building just north of the city center. Steve didn’t know much about it. He had never been there before, but there was something in the triumphal arch on the façade that gave him the jitters. The gargantuan slab of stone that ran up to the tall and slim windows, almost gothic in their leanness, made him feel small while he was queueing to buy a ticket. He wasn’t sure where to start, but he knew that Monty Falsworth must have gone back to Birmingham, so Calais seemed as good a destination as any other. He moved on, head buzzing with tiredness and thoughts he didn’t want to address.

“ _Capitaine_?”

Steve felt his heart plummet to his ankles. He raised his head towards the man who had just finished buying his ticket and who, in that precise moment, had stopped in his tracks and was looking at Steve like you would look at a ghost, pale as a sheet, eyes huge.

Steve choked. “Dernier?”

Jacques Dernier was standing in front of him, older, but not too much, black moustache and beret on his head, exactly like Steve had seen him for every single one of their war days together. Dernier had been their unit explosive expert, called in from France by someone high up in the power chain of SHIELD, right at the beginning of the civil war. When Steve had met him for the first time, he had been barely more than a child.

“ _Oh mon Dieu_ ,” Dernier blinked, disbelief dripping like honey. “ _Que fais-tu ici? Je pensais que vous étiez mort!_ ”

Steve shushed him and grabbed his arm, dragging him away from the queue. “I’m alive,” he whispered, quietly.

“Well, I can see that.” Dernier still looked flabbergasted, but a bubbling happiness was starting to show on his face.

Steve smiled as well and let out a small chuckle. A whole new kind of dizziness enveloped him. “I am so happy to see you, my God.”

Dernier grinned broadly, and suddenly his arms were around Steve’s shoulders and they were grasping at each other forcefully. “ _Mon Dieu, Capitaine_ ,” he babbled, then let go. “What are you doing here?” he asked again.

Steve glanced at the huge clock up the wall, the hands ticking rhythmically. He wanted to leave before the ball started. Staying after that… It didn’t seem right. He felt as if that was a new chapter in Bucky’s life and even being in the same city… It didn’t feel right. But there was still time.

“Do you have a spare hour?” he asked his old friend, who was still looking at him as if seeing him for the first time all over again. Dernier shrugged. “For you? Always, Cap.”

And so, in a lousy café just outside the Gare du Nord, Steve told Jacques Dernier everything he had kept inside for more than a decade. They had fought together for years, always covering each other’s back, as he had done with the rest of the Commandos. They had shared sleeping arrangements and the meager rations SHIELD managed to send. They had hunted rabbits and tried to cook their chewy meat on terrible excuses of campfires. They had killed together and went undercover together and lied and deceived. He would trust any of the Commandos with his life in the blink of an eye. They had shared so much, and yet somehow, Steve had never, ever, talked about Bucky with his old companions. A door had shut closed when Dum Dum Duganov had found him in the snow, a shell shocked 12-year-old almost frozen to death. Steve’s old life, everything he had lost, had been closed somewhere inside him, where it couldn’t hurt.

So he told Dernier about his childhood, about Bucky’s sisters, about meeting the tsarevich of Sokovia in a stable, and later bonding over their delicate health. He told him about his job as a forger and living with Natasha in the skeleton of the Winter Palace. And he told him about finding Bucky again, back from the dead, older and infinitely more broken. He told him how he had left him, to give him a chance at a better life. But he also told him he wanted to help in any way he could. If Bucky ever wanted to reclaim his position, Steve was going to do whatever he could, from a distance. He told Dernier his plan was to jump on the first train to Calais and get to Birmingham in a crazy attempt to track down Monty.

Dernier didn’t question him. He looked at Steve attentively, nursing his cognac and smoking one cigarette after the other. Steve started counting time by how many butts fell into the ashtray at the center of the table. When he finished the story, he felt lighter and heavier at the same time. When he stopped talking, Dernier let out a long whistle, then cursed in French and Steve laughed.

“ _Tu n’apporterais que des ennuis, Capitaine._ ”

Steve smiled, melancholic. “ _Exactement comme je l’ai toujours fait_.”

Dernier nodded, forefinger brushing the hem of the glass. “Birmingham is a big city.”

Steve shrugged. “I’m stubborn.”

“It takes one to know one.” Dernier sank a hand into his jacket and took out the ticket he had just purchased. He slid it across the table.

“Calais,” Steve read, eyebrows raising. “Visiting the family?”

“I am from Marseille, asshole.”

Steve snorted.

“But yes, something like that. I hear that Birmingham is lovely this time of the year.” He took back the ticket and finished his cognac.

“You want to come with me?”

Dernier lifted an eyebrow. “Do _you_ want to come with me, _Capitaine_?”

Steve chuckled. “So, you are saying you would be okay trying to track down the old team? Go back for the Prince?”

Dernier finished his cigarette, then smirked. “I’ll tell you what I told Dum Dum when I arrived in Sokovia. _Moi, je déteste les fascistes. Je combattrai jusqu’à ce que le dernier de ces bâtards soit mort, enchainé ou pleure comme un petit bébé_. If you think we can do it, Cap, we will do it.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, laughing in disbelief.

“You cannot really be surprised, right?”

Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. Didn’t really have a plan, you know? I just want to do what’s right for Bucky.”

“Yeah, about that…”

Steve stiffened, teeth sinking into his lower lip. Did he say something compromising? He had no idea what his team thought about… queers, fairies, whatever they called people like him. He swallowed a long gulp of whiskey preparing himself for the worst.

But Steve never got to know what Dernier thought about his relationship with Bucky, because a blast of blue light suddenly illuminated the sky outside as if it were daytime. Steve jumped to his feet, rushing out of the café. Most people in the street had stopped and turned south towards the city center, towards the river, _towards the_ _Grand Palais_. It had been like lightning, abrupt and immediate, but there was still a strange electricity in the air, a strange… Steve gaped when another blast exploded, then a low rumble and the earth started to quake.

He had just enough time to spot Dernier scurrying out of the door, his coat half hanging from his arm, then, he started running.

***

Pooka was barking in the darkness, somewhere that couldn’t be far. Bucky could hear her; he could hear her quick, soft steps on the grass of the maze. They were closing in on him, the topiary hedges; they seemed to, at least. He knew it wasn’t possible, he knew it wasn’t natural, but he felt more and more crowded. It seemed as if every time he chose a way, the passage immediately closed behind him, preventing him from going back, guiding him in a predetermined direction. But it wasn’t possible, was it? It was just not possible, he was aware of it. Hedges do not grow in seconds.

“Bushes do not move,” he growled to himself. “Keep it together.” He took a big breath. “Pooka! Where are you, girl?”

Bucky’s silhouette passed through a moonbeam, his shadow projecting on the gravel like an Etruscan statue. He shivered, his heart beating furiously in his chest. He was _scared_.

The barking stopped.

Bucky froze.

Then a blind rage started rising inside him. _Not my fucking dog_. “Pooka!” he shouted, turning corners, running, desperately trying to get to her. She was his responsibility, he had to protect her, she was innocent. “Pooka!”

He spun in circles, recognizing the same patterns, spotting the same bushes and hedges and…

“Pooka!”

He finally found her, growling and snarling at something Bucky could not see. He grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and pressed her small body against his chest. He could hear both of their hearts pounding.

“There you are.” He looked around, wearily, and started walking towards what presumably was the exit. It had to be. He passed by a horse-shaped bush, then a dolphin, a bear, a duck, even a squirrel. He didn’t remember them. He hadn’t seen them coming in. He hadn’t passed through these openings. In his arms, Pooka was whining.

“Everything is fine,” Bucky cooed, cold sweat dampening his temples. “We’re getting out of here.”

He tried so hard to ignore the rustling, to avoid feeling that someone was watching, that something was pushing him exactly where they wanted him. He started running again, panic seeping in. He wasn’t scared for himself, but Pooka, she was little and vulnerable and if they were attacked… Bucky didn’t even have a pocket knife with him. Stupid.

He saw a small hole in the hedge and threw himself through it, arm first, crushing the branches and cutting his face. He stumbled through to the other side, and when he raised his gaze he was… on a bridge. A deserted bridge. He stopped. No one was there, no car, no people. He was completely alone. It was unnatural. He lifted his chin up and his heart missed a beat when he recognized the unbridled winged horses at the top of the pillars, shining eerily in the faint light. It was the Pont Alexandre III. It had been built in honor of his grandfather, when France and Sokovia had signed a peace treaty after the last war they had fought.

He hadn’t been led there by chance.

He took a deep breath and took off his fancy gloves, then started unlacing his fancy jacket. If he had to fight, he was going to do so at his best. He had just discarded the jacket, Pooka hiding behind his legs, when he heard a voice that froze the blood in his veins.

“Yakovushka.”

There was a silhouette in the moonlight. He stood proudly, at the center of the bridge, a blue glowing cube in his hand. He was tall and lean, all dressed in black, and his head was bald and red as blood – a red skull. He had a hole in the place of his nose. Bucky’s eyes widened in shock.

The man – was he even a man? – stepped closer, the light of the Tesseract creating distorted shadows on his face, then he bowed, a horrible smile on his face.

“Your Imperial Highness.” He paused, tasting the title on his lips. “Look what 13 years have done to us.” His eyes ran to Bucky’s metal arm, partly covered by his white, pristine shirt.

“That face,” Bucky whispered without realizing he had opened his mouth. The puzzle was completing itself in his head. Finally, he had all the pieces.

“Last seen at a party like this one.” He waved towards the palace, but Bucky didn’t turn.

The Red Skull – Bucky couldn’t bear to call him a man – raised the Tesseract up high. “Followed by a tragic fall into the ice. Remember?”

Before Bucky could react, a blast erupted from the cube. A stream of blue light shot up into the sky, then plunged back to earth, enveloping the bridge, the statues, and the imposing pillars, and then ran down until it hit the black surface of the river. Water transformed into ice, stone becoming slippery and frozen in a heartbeat. Bucky gasped.

He knew who the Red Skull was.

“Johann Schmidt,” he spat out, channeling all his hatred towards the man.

“Johann Schmidt,” the Red Skull repeated, mockingly, then laughed, a cruel, high laugh, like nails scratching on a blackboard.

Bucky felt all the suppressed rage come back to him. Now he remembered. He remembered everything. He knew where and when he had seen the Tesseract before. He knew when the burning serum had first penetrated in his veins. He knew that the first time the Tesseract’s light had blinded his eyes had been when he was just a child, the sickly son of a desperate mother, the dying heir of the oldest dynasty in Europe. Everything that had happened to him, the slaughter of his family, his imprisonment, his arm, his brainwash, the torture he had had to endure, it all started with Johann Schmidt.

Smoke billowed out of the Tesseract, advanced on the well-cut pavement, climbed his legs like snakes, enveloped him, suffocated him. He thrashed, arms waving desperately in the air. He didn’t know how to get rid of it. He heard the fabric tear after a particularly violent swing of his metal arm, the plates catching the seams, whirring desperately to recalibrate. He grabbed the sleeve with his right hand and tore it to pieces, throwing them aside.

“Oh, the Winter Soldier shows his face.” The Red Skull was grinning maniacally, his eyes gleaming in sick joy. He had always liked to observe Bucky’s distress with sadistic pleasure.

Bucky growled, but the chains of smoke wrapped around his wrists and his ankles, spreading him against the bannister. He heard Pooka whine somewhere on his left, but he couldn’t react, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t protect her. He tried to fight, mechanical arm whirring and whizzing, in a desperate attempt to resist the binding power. He was a creature of the Tesseract. He had to be able to fight back. He growled, straightening his shoulders, yanking on the smoky restraints with brute force. And finally, they yielded, evaporating in a cackling of light.

“You are a work of art,” the Red Skull said, almost regretfully, that same patronizing tone in his voice that Bucky had always hated. Schmidt had always had the power to make him feel small. But not anymore.

Bucky stepped forward, rolling his metal shoulder, the circuits in his arm coming back to life. He enjoyed the sensation of them setting themselves back together. It was like massaging his human muscles in warm water after a long day. Every connection went back to its place, and the overheated fuses – strained in the effort of freeing him – cooling down to normal temperatures. The Red Skull didn’t seem fazed. He kept smiling his skull-like grin, an inexplicable admiration coloring his features.

“It is such a pity to get rid of you, my boy,” he said, almost regretfully.

Bucky narrowed his eyes, trying to quickly decipher how to overpower him. He had to get to the cube, but how?

“But you are the past. My first experiment. You were useful until you weren’t anymore. Your services to HYDRA have helped us a great deal for many years.” He caressed the edge of the cube. “But now that the Tesseract has disclosed all its secrets to me…”

Bucky thought about the mind-controlled goons on the train. If the Red Skull could control people like that, he didn’t have to invest years into brainwashing enhanced kids. Bucky had to stop him.

“I am not afraid of you,” he said, as coldly as possible.

The Red Skull smiled again, almost proud. “I can fix that. Care for a little trip down memory lane?”

A jet of light that Bucky remembered very well shot from the core of the Tesseract, hitting the ground like a bolt of lightning, creating a semi-circle around Bucky. From the first blast, a crack raced across the bridge, splitting open stone and steel. The bridge moaned and creaked hideously, the earth trembling under Bucky’s feet as he desperately tried to stay upright. But it was too late. A section of the bridge started to collapse, sliding inevitably towards the frozen river. Bucky yelled in surprise, hands instinctively grasping at the slabs, trying to find a handhold. He managed to grab the edge of the footpath, holding onto it, pushing himself up. He had to before that portion of the bridge ended up at the bottom of the Seine.

The Red Skull stood on the edge of the abyss, eyes wide and full of inhumane insanity. “Say your prayers, Yakov! No one can save you!”

“Wanna bet?”

Bucky’s eyes widened as Steve Fucking Rogers manifested himself like a damn huge avenging angel. For a second, Bucky firmly believed that one of the bigger pieces of debris falling from the cracked side of the bridge had hit him in the head. But then Steve decided that the best way to approach a red-skinned, magic-cube holding warlock was to sack him in the jaw, and Bucky was pretty sure that not even in his most brain damaged state could he conjure up something like that. The Red Skull stumbled backwards, taken by surprise, and the Tesseract fell from his hand, shooting out a blast that opened a hole in the already damaged side of the bridge. The recoil caused Bucky to lose his grip and he slipped further down, legs dangling in the void. He blindly grasped at a steel bar, hearing it moan as it bent under his weight. A second later, a hand closed around his flesh forearm.

“Steve,” he groaned, struggling to crawl back up. “I had him on the ropes.”

Steve huffed out a breathless laugh. “I know you did. C’m here, c’m here.” He tried to slip his hands under Bucky’s armpits, but he stopped when he finally saw Bucky’s arm. His jaw fell.

“Yes, isn’t it funny?” Schmidt's voice came sweetly from above, a little breathless, like the nauseating feeling of too much sugar in a cup of coffee.

“Shut up,” Bucky growled, panic squeezing his insides. But it was useless. Steve wasn’t an idiot. And if he knew about the metal arm…

And then…

“Captain Rogers, may I introduce you to the Winter Soldier?”

Bucky closed his eyes, lips held firmly between his teeth. He couldn’t watch Steve’s reaction.

“You may remember him. He is the only man who almost managed to kill you.”

Time stopped. Bucky wondered how Steve would let him go. If his hold would just slacken, weakly; if he would flinch back, leaving him abruptly. He wondered how it was going to feel, plummeting into the frozen river. Would he hit his head on the ice? Would he freeze to death, this time for real? He let his legs go limp, he didn’t want to fight anymore, he didn’t care, not if Steve would look at him again with horror in his eyes, just like in his dreams. The only thing he had tried to hide from Steve… the thing that he hated himself the most for, the main reason he had let him go… And now it was out in the open and his life was literally in Steve’s hands. Not in Johann Schmidt’s, not even in his own. It was in Steve’s. And Bucky thought, _Oh, what a way to go_.

But when nothing happened – the clutch on his forearm didn’t loosen, his stomach didn’t sink in the sensation of a fall – and he found the courage to open his eyes, Steve was still there, eyebrows furrowed in the effort to hold him, sweat running down his temples, lips pressed together into a thin line. They looked at each other and Bucky didn’t see the determination falter in those blue irises.

Steve shook his head, _I don’t care_. And with a superhuman effort, he finally hooked his right elbow under Bucky’s metal armpit, welts opening on white skin when it pressed against the shifting plates. He pressed his fingertips against Bucky’s shoulder, half on the metal, half on the tender flesh of his collarbone. And then he pulled him up, all of Bucky’s weight on his shoulders, muscles bulging under his shirt, face flushed in the effort. Then, Bucky’s kneecaps collided against the surviving slabs, finding handholds, unburdening Steve’s back. They were still barely holding onto the collapsing side of the bridge when the Red Skull spoke again.

“Touching,” he said, flatly, and his wrist moved almost imperceptibly. The bindings that had enveloped Bucky shot towards them once again, wrapping themselves around Steve’s limbs, dragging him away from Bucky’s hold. Bucky screamed, leaping towards him, but he wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, and the phantom chains threw Steve up in the air, then slammed him onto one of the sculptures at the top of the pillars. The golden eyes of the enormous winged horse were suddenly blue and glowing, like the men on the train. As if by magic, the pegasus came to life, flapping its bronze wings, with Steve perched precariously on its back. Bucky couldn’t watch. Led by desperation, he started climbing the crumbling bridge, eyes fixed on the edge, just a few feet… He grasped the eroded stone and heaved up on his elbows. He had to… he had to… but the horse flew down to the bridge, its hooves brushing the cobblestones of the pavement, before bucking Steve off its back. He slammed violently against the side of the bridge, his head hitting the stone. Bucky let out a wounded sound, paralyzed in horror. The bronze pegasus wasn’t giving Steve the space to breathe. It reared up and kicked at him, metal hooves hitting the stone so hard that the earth started quaking.

Bucky cursed, slipping. “Steve!” he shouted.

He had to reach him. He had to… He managed to see Steve brandishing a scrap of metal like a shield, before a sharp pain ran from his head to the rest of his body. The Red Skull’s hand was grasping his hair, heaving him up mid-air. Bucky tried to grab his arm, but he shook him, and he couldn’t do anything but groan in pain.

Schmidt was laughing, madness and folly coloring his triumph. He looked at Bucky, contemplative, for the longest seconds of his life, then– “ _Dasvidanya_ , Your Highness,” and let go.

Bucky fell.

The already butchered portion of the bridge gave up as well, ceding under the pressure of the earthquake-level kicks of the bronze horse. As air rushed out of his lungs, Bucky reached out in desperation, and his metal hand closed around a bent iron beam. The sharp pain of the recoil almost shut down his brain. He sank his teeth into his lower lip to avoid making any noise, drawing blood, the strained muscles of his back burning as if he had been immersed into a volcano. He stayed still for seconds that felt as long as lifetimes, secretly praying that Schmidt wouldn’t look down and see him dangling in the void. He could hear Steve desperately calling his name and his heart shattered in his chest.

Bucky let the serum do its job, knitting back muscles, repairing what was broken, and then he slowly started climbing the beam, then the crumbling debris, and finally he heaved himself up on the bridge, right behind the Red Skull, who was still glowing in the illusion of his victory, rocking the Tesseract like a newborn baby. Before he could lose his advantage, Bucky threw himself against the man who had ruined his life, tackling him to the ground, fists hitting everywhere he could. He was methodical, yes, but mostly rabid, furious, metal impacting on red skin with such rage it blinded him to all else. The Red Skull’s grasp on the Tesseract inevitably loosened at some point, and before Bucky could notice, the shining cube rolled away. In the commotion, Bucky didn’t even look at it, too busy hitting and hitting and hitting, everywhere he could reach. But he should have. The blast of blue light hit him in the chest, throwing him in the air. He fell on his back on the ground in a pile of bruised limbs; he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t… He palmed his chest and winced when his hand encountered welted skin right above his abdomen. The pain was unbearable. He could feel his tissue sizzling. He coughed, trying to breathe, ears ringing, brain screaming in agony. He couldn’t lose consciousness, not now, no…

With superhuman effort, he blinked and focused his gaze, his eyes welling with tears. The Red Skull was hovering above him, face reduced to a pulpy mess, blood pouring from a busted eye-socket, teeth bared, lips taut. He was holding the Tesseract, which was buzzing with energy. Bucky had seen men vaporized by the power of the cube. Bucky had shot guns that had vaporized those men, transforming them into less than dust. He knew he would not be able to survive another blast. He raised his chin defiantly _. God, please, let Steve survive this_.

Schmidt looked like the Devil incarnate. “Long live the Voinovs,” he recited.

But in that moment, right when the static energy of the Tesseract started to catalyze into a jet of blue death, a ball of grey fur leaped in the air and hit the side of the cube with her snout. Pooka yelped victoriously and the cube fell right in front of Bucky.

Rage and fear distorted the Red Skull’s features when the metal fist of the Winter Soldier closed around the Tesseract.

“No!” he shouted, but Bucky was already standing, adrenaline sustaining him, his prey safe in his hand.

He felt it; the connection with the object, the disproportionate power it irradiated, the sensation of omnipotence. His eyes ran in the direction of Steve, the winged horse looming over his still body. His eyes were closed. Bucky’s breath hitched as his fingers started to crush the crystal.

“This is for Steve,” he roared.

Schmidt tried to reach out for him, but as the gem cracked, a pale blue light started to envelop him. His right hand started rotting, welts and wheals forming on his red blood skin. He screamed in horror.

“This is for my family.” He applied even more pressure, cracks forming from where his metal fingers were grasping at the cube.

Light blue rifts started to form on the winged horse body until it was covered with them, before exploding in a triumph of gold. Schmidt’s cloak started adhering to his burning skin, melting into his ever-forming wounds, seeped in blood.

“And this,” he paused. “This is for you .”

And with meticulous, systematic, devastating coldness, he crushed the cube in his hand.

“ _Dasvidanya_.”

Bucky leapt back as a blue light sprayed into Johann Schmidt, beginning with his devastated fingers, coursing into him like an electric shock, enveloping him, circling him, consuming him. His skin glowed blue and red and purple, and it shimmered in the night. Tissues started to melt off him, first from his arms, then from the rest of his body, bloody mush of flesh falling off, like the pulp of a too-ripe fruit. His head went last, and Bucky watched with cold eyes as the red skin left nothing but a still screaming skull. Finally, even his bones fell apart, crumbling to dust, mixing up with the broken fragments of the glowing cube.

Before he could process what just happened, Bucky hurried to Steve’s side. He was still as death, body slumped on one side, a rivulet of blood running from his temple, framing his sharp jaw. Pooka was already at his side, headbutting him gently on his shoulder, soft pleading whines echoing on the deserted scene. Bucky’s breath hitched. He didn’t dare check for his pulse. What if he was…? What if he didn’t…? He raised a shaking hand, gently brushing his hair back… and Steve stirred, groaning softly from the back of his throat.

Something huge lifted from Bucky’s chest. “S-Steve?”

Steve blinked back to consciousness, then he pulled himself up slowly, leaning on one of his elbows. He managed to crack a smile, soft and lopsided. “Hey Buck.”

Bucky exhaled, huffing out a laugh, letting all the exhaustion and the weariness catch up with him. He pressed his forehead against Steve’s, hands grasping at his shoulders, palming his broad back, making sure he was right there, warm and solid and alive. Steve’s right hand ran up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing underneath his eye, catching the silent tears Bucky didn’t know he was shedding.

“It’s okay,” Steve whispered, searching for his gaze. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky choked, and he didn’t know if he was apologizing because he was having a meltdown, or because Steve had found out about the Winter Soldier, or because he had almost killed him by shooting him in the snow, or because he had killed so many people for HYDRA, or if it was because Steve had just escaped death for the umpteenth time and it was all his fault. He just kept repeating the words and Steve held him close, face pressed in the crook of his neck, lips brushing against his skin, murmuring soothing words.

Natasha found them like that, holding onto each other as if life itself depended on that contact, Pooka snuggled between their bodies. Bucky barely listened to her when she told them Nick Fury’s spies had found Arnim Zola hiding in the bell tower of Saint Étienne du Mont, ready to fly as soon as the first blast had shot up the sky. She had been with them, and she said so almost apologetically, as if she regretted not being there with them. She wasn’t expecting it. Nobody was. How could any of them foresee the power of the Tesseract? When she knelt on the ground, trying to assess the damage, Bucky dragged her into their uncomfortable hug.

If it was up to him, they wouldn’t be letting go anytime soon.

*

> _Dear Grandmama,_
> 
> _Wish me luck. Sokovia needs saving. And a new deal._
> 
> _I love you._
> 
> _Bucky Barnes_

*

Paris, November 14th, 1930

The riverboat was cruising up the Seine at an idle pace, the lights of Paris slowly disappearing in its wake. It was the middle of the night and Steve was awake, forearms pressing against the bannister of the upper deck.

“Hey, what are you doing here?”

Steve started and twirled on his heels. Bucky was walking towards him, hands deep in his pockets, his coat hanging from his shoulders, open on the front. Under the waistcoat and his shirt, thick layers of bandages wrapped his chest.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Steve shrugged.

Bucky tilted his head, asking for permission, and Steve nodded. They both hunched over the barrier, forearms pressing against each other. Steve smiled sadly when he noticed that Bucky had positioned himself at his left deliberately. He reached out with his right and grabbed Bucky’s metal hand with his own. The awkwardness of the position didn’t bother him.

“You are an idiot, you know that?” Bucky said in a huff.

“I’ve been told.”

He thought about Dernier, sleeping in one of the cabins downstairs. He thought of Natasha, who had stayed back in Paris, coordinating, she said. Protecting all of them, Steve heard. It had been hard, saying goodbye again, after the wreck on the bridge. She had smuggled them away, hid them for the night, helping to tend to their wounds. Not many words had been exchanged. Just glances. They understood each other like that. At some point, Steve must have fallen asleep, but he didn’t remember how nor where. When he got up, it was late morning, Arnim Zola had been found shot dead in custody, and Bucky had a gun again. He was polishing it, sitting on the windowsill, midday sun painting his hair with a gold halo. He had studied Steve with a strange look, then he had said, “I met a friend of yours, good Frenchie, says you want to start a revolution. Tell you what? I’m in if you are not making it for me. And my dog comes along.” And just like that, they had said goodbye to Natasha on a dock on the Seine, standing one in front of the other, and she had held them for more seconds than it was strictly necessary. They were going to arrive in Le Havre in a week, then take a ferry to England from a less obvious port than Calais. Avoid all the havoc, hopefully. Steve hadn’t managed to get his hands on a newspaper yet, but he could imagine the atmosphere.

“Bucky?” Steve asked, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Mh?”

_We should talk_ , he thought, mind buzzing with a massive amount of thoughts. Everything had happened too fast; meeting again, falling in love as strangers, realizing who they were for each other, who they had been, saying goodbye, and then crashing back together. And now, leaving together for a new adventure without even stopping to reflect on what it entailed.

But what were they supposed to do now? For themselves. Rebuild? Start from the beginning? Steve was aware he didn’t know this Bucky; the Bucky who had been the Winter Soldier, the Bucky who had undergone 13 years of brainwashing and torture, who was consuming himself in guilt and regret; not like he had known the Bucky of his childhood, carefree and positive, even on his worst days. But at the same time… those past few weeks had been so intense, and they had proved how strong their bond was, how, inevitably, they had fallen back into each other’s arms, one the planet of the other’s sun. Steve wanted this Bucky. He wanted him from the bottom of his heart. He had fallen for this Bucky whilst doing everything to push him away. It had happened anyway. Couldn’t escape. Tends to happen with soulmates.

_Such a sap, Rogers_ , said Natasha’s amused voice.

Steve lingered with his gaze on the dark water underneath them and thought about the long road ahead. Plan was simple: find the right men, start a revolution. There was going to be time for assessing the details. So maybe, just maybe, even difficult conversations could wait for a while. There was something he wanted to do first, something that he had been wanting to do for more than a decade without even realizing it.

“Wanna dance?”

He felt Bucky turning towards him, looking for something in his face, maybe some sign that proved he hadn’t completely lost his mind. When Steve glimpsed at him out of the corner of his eye, though, Bucky was completely blank, almost contemplative.

“Yeah, Steve, yeah, I’d like that.”

And so they arranged themselves into position, Bucky leading, Steve following, heads so close their foreheads bumped against each other every time the boat encountered even the smallest wave. They wobbled from one foot to the other, without a precise aim, without a song in mind, just finding solace in each other's presence, cataloguing in their minds all the new details, every singularity they had never noticed before. There were many. They had time.

_Thirteen years_ , Steve thought leaning in, thinking about two boys who had been there for each other before they even knew what it meant to belong completely and utterly to someone; thinking about two strangers finding comfort in each other’s presence in a train carriage; thinking about two broken men sharing a cigarette in an anonymous German hotel room; thinking about two fools dancing in a queer ballroom in Paris. They were always supposed to end up here, weren’t they?

Their foreheads bumped against each other once more, noses brushing hesitantly, and when, finally, their mouths collided, it didn’t feel strange. It felt like it was supposed to happen at some point, like it had been written in God’s book since two children met brawling with bullies in a stable.

Kissing Bucky, Steve didn’t feel nervous. His palms weren’t sweating, and his heart wasn’t beating furiously in his chest. He felt at peace, like he had felt at the Bal de la Rue Sainte Genevieve, holding Bucky in his arms, gently swaying, following the rhythm of the music then, following the rhythm of the river now. They kissed slowly, inexpert as they were, trying to figure out what was right and what was wrong, where to put their hands, how to tilt their heads. Bucky’s lips were chapped, and Steve had a deep cut at the corner of his lower one. It had stopped bleeding, but it was still sore. Bucky tasted like mint, like the toothpaste they had found in their bundles, together with a bunch of fake identities – Steve had wrinkled his nose at a couple of them because... _professional hazard_ – and the instructions on how to reach their British contacts. As he kissed Bucky into oblivion, on the upper deck of an anonymous boat on their way to Le Havre, as he took from him little gasps, soft exhales, and a whole lot of nose bumping, Steve decided that he really wanted to get a good grasp on this, and that he would gladly rehearse with Bucky for the rest of their lives.

When they stopped, they didn’t pull back.

“Are you sure about this?” Bucky asked in a whisper, his breath caressing Steve’s wet lips, sending shivers down his spine. His metal hand was shining in the moonlight, cupping Steve’s cheek, fingertips cold as a November night.

Steve took Bucky’s metal hand in his, brushing his fingers against every single knuckle. Natasha had asked him the same thing, not even two days before, and he had tried to trick his brain into believing a lie. But this time, this time his _soul_ knew.

He pressed his lips against Bucky’s knuckles, hot and wet and tingling. “Bucky,” he said, enjoying the sound of the nickname he himself had given him so long ago. He looked into those grey blue eyes, dark and fond and focussed on him, as if the future of the universe depended on his answer. Steve’s mind went back to those two boys again, trying desperately to save each other during the most terrible night of their lives. They had lost everything once, and now they had a second chance to be true to old promises. He took a deep breath, and then, a leap of faith. “I told you, didn’t I? End of the line. I’ll meet you there.”

_The End_

> Bonus:
> 
> **Telegram from Timofey Duganov to Steven Rogers:**
> 
> If I have to call him Your Highness STOP I am out STOP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  \- _Capitaine?_ = Captain?  
> \- _Oh mon Dieu_ = Oh my God.  
> \- _Que fais-tu ici? Je pensais que vous étiez mort!_ = What are you doing here? I thought you were dead!  
> \- _Mon Dieu, Capitaine_ = My God, Captain.  
> \- _Tu n’apporterais que des ennuis_ = You are nothing but trouble.  
> \- _Exactement comme je l’ai toujours fait_ = Same as always.  
> \- _Moi, je déteste les fascistes. Je combattrai jusqu’à ce que le dernier de ces bâtards soit mort, enchainé ou pleure comme un petit bébé_ = Me, I hate fascists. I will fight until the last of these bastards is dead, chained or crying like a little baby.
> 
> _Footnotes:_  
>  The sentence _Moi, je déteste..._ is the sentence that Dernier pronounces during the bar scene in First Avenger. I had to put Dernier there somehow. 
> 
> And come on, our boys, they are heroes, they would never leave Sokovia to HYDRA. 
> 
> It is indeed a beginning.
> 
> Thank you everyone for sticking out for this fic. ❤️

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] like a memory from a dream by Ginny_Potter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26952709) by [Bookbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookbee/pseuds/Bookbee)




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